WOLFVILLE 
DAYS 


•LEWIS 


WOLFVILLE  DAYS 


"HANDS   UP! 


WOLFVILLE   DAYS 


By     ALFRED     HENRY     LEWIS 

Author  of  "Wolfville,"  "Sandburrs,"  "Pearls  and  Swine, "etc. 


With  frontispiece    by    Frederic    Remington 


GROSSET     &     DUNLAP 
PUBLISHERS    :     NEW     YORK 


COPYRIGHT,  1903, 
By  FREDERICK  A.  STOKES  COMPAHY 


CHAPTER! 
The  Great  Wolfvflte  Strike. 

"  No,  sir,  even  onder  spur  an'  quirt,  my  mem'ry 
can  only  canter  back  to  one  uprisin'  of  labor  in 
Wolfville  ;  that  was  printers." 

At  this  the  Old  Cattleman  looked  unduly  saga 
cious,  refreshed  himself  with  a  puff  or  two  at  his  pipe, 
and  all  with  the  air  of  one  who  might,  did  he  see  fit, 
consider  the  grave  questions  of  capital  and  labor 
with  an  ability  equal  to  their  solution.  His  remark 
was  growth  of  the  strike  story  of  some  mill  work 
men,  told  glaringly  in  the  newspaper  he  held  in  his 
hands. 

"Wolfville  is  not  at  that  time,"  he  continued, 
"  what  you-all  East  would  call  a  swirlin'  vortex  of 
trade ;  still  she  has  her  marts.  Thar's  the  copper 
mines,  the  Bird  Cage  Op'ry  House,  the  Red  Light, 
the  O.  K.  Restauraw,  the  Dance  Hall,  the  New  York 
Store  an*  sinrlar  hives  of  commerce.  Which 
ondoubted  the  barkeeps  is  the  hardest  worked  folks 
in  camp,  an'  yet  none  of  'em  ever  goes  on  the  war 
path  for  shorter  hours  or  longer  pay,  so  far  as  I  has 
notice.  Barkeeps  that  a-way  is  alight-hearted  band 
an'  cheerful  onder  their  burdens.  Once  when  Old 

248996 


2  Wolfville  Days* 

Monte  brings  the  stage  in  late  because  of  some  bog- 
gin'  down  he  does  over  at  a  quicksand  ford  in  the 
foothills,  a  shorthorn  who  arrives  with  him  as  a 
passenger  comes  edgin'  into  the  Red  Light.  Beinf 
it's  four  o'clock  in  the  mornin',  the  tenderfoot  seems 
amazed  at  sech  activities  as  faro-bank,  an'  high-ball, 
said  devices  bein'  in  full  career;  to  say  nothin'  of 
the  Dance  Hall,  which  '  Temple  of  Mirth,'  as  Ham 
ilton  who  is  proprietor  r^arof  names  it,  is  whoopin' 
it  up  across  the  street. 

"'Ain't  you  open  rather  late?'  says  the  short 
horn.  His  tones  is  apol'getic  an'  no  offence  is  took. 

"  That's  one  of  them  gratefyin'  things  about  the 
Southwest.  That  temperate  region  don't  go 
pirootin'  'round  strivin'  to  run  its  brand  onto  things 
as  insults  where  none  ain't  meant.  The  Southwest 
ropes  only  at  the  intention.  You  may  even  go  so 
far  as  to  shoot  the  wrong  gent  in  a  darkened  way, 
an'  as  long  as  you  pulls  off  the  play  in  a  sperit  of 
honesty,  an'  the  party  plugged  don't  happen  to  be 
a  pop'lar  idol,  about  the  worst  you'd  get  would  be 
a  caution  from  the  Stranglers  to  be  more  acc'rate  in 
your  feuds,  sech  is  the  fairmindedness  an'  toleration 
of  Southwest  sentiment. 

"  As  I  suggests,  the  barkeep,  realizin'  that  the 
stranger's  bluff  arises  from  cur'osity  rather  than  any 
notion  of  what  booksports  calls  *  captious  criticism,' 
feels  no  ombrage. 

"'  What  was  you-all  pleased  to  remark?'  retorts 
the  barkeep  as  he  slams  his  nose-paint  where  the 
shorthorn  can  get  action. 


The  Great  Wolfville  Strike,  3 

"  *  Nothin','  replies  the  shorthorn,  imbibin'  of  his 
forty  drops,  'only  it  sort  o'  looks  to  my  onaccus- 
tomed  eye  like  this  deadfall  is  open  rather  late.' 

"'Which  she  is  some  late/  admits  the  barkeep, 
as  he  softly  swabs  the  counter  ;  '  which  it  is  some 
late  for  night  before  last,  but  it's  jest  the  shank  of 
the  evenin'  for  to-night.' 

"  But,  as  I  observes  a  bit  back  on  the  trail,  I 
never  do  hear  of  any  murmur  of  resentment  on  the 
part  of  the  toilin'  masses  of  the  town,  save  in  the  one 
instance  when  that  bunch  of  locoed  printers  capers 
out  an'  defies  the  editor  an'  publisher  of  the  Wolf- 
ville  Coyote,  the  same  bein'  the  daily  paper  of  the 
outfit. 

"  This  yere  imprint,  the  Coyote,  is  done  owned  an* 
run  by  Colonel  William  Greene  Sterett.  An'  I'll 
pause  right  yere  for  the  double  purpose  of  takin*  a 
drink  an'  sympathisin'  with  you  a  whole  lot  in  not 
knowin*  the  Colonel.  You  nacherally  ain't  as 
acootely  aware  of  the  fact  as  I  be,  but  you  can 
gamble  a  bloo  stack  that  not  knowin'  Colonel  Ste 
rett  borders  on  a  deeprivation.  He  is  shore  wise, 
the  Colonel  is,  an'  when  it  comes  to  bein'  fully 
informed  on  every  p'int,  from  the  valyoo  of  queens- 
up  before  the  draw  to  the  political  effect  of  the  Dec 
laration  of  Independence,  he's  an  even  break  with 
Doc  Peets.  An'  as  I've  asserted  frequent — an'  I 
don't  pinch  down  a  chip — Doc  Peets  is  the  finest 
eddicated  sharp  in  Arizona. 

"  We-all  will  pass  up  the  tale  at  this  crisis,  but 
I'll  tell  you  later  about  ho\v  Colonel  Sterett  comes 


4  Wolfville  Days* 

a-weavin'  into  Wolfville  that  time  an*  founds  the 
Coyote.  It's  enough  now  to  know  that  when  these 
yere  printers  takes  to  ghost-dancin'  that  time,  the 
Colonel  has  been  in  our  midst  crowdin'  hard  on  the 
hocks  of  a  year,  an'  is  held  in  high  regyard  by  Old 
Man  Enright,  Doc  Peets,  Jack  Moore,  Boggs,  Tutt, 
Cherokee  Hall,  Faro  Nell,  and  other  molders  of 
local  opinion,  an'  sort  o'  trails  in  next  after  Enright 
an'  Peets  in  public  esteem.  The  Colonel  is  shore 
listened  to  an'  heeded  at  sech  epocks  as  Wolfville 
sets  down  serious  to  think. 

"  Them  printers  of  the  Colonel's  stampedes  them- 
se'fs  jest  followin'  the  latter's  misonderstandin'  with 
Huggins,  who  conducts  the  Bird  Cage  Op'ry  House, 
an*  who  as  I've  allers  maintained,  incites  them 
mechanics,  private,  to  rebellion,  as  a  scheme  of 
revenge  on  the  Colonel.  The  trouble  which  bears 
its  final  froote  in  this  labor  uprisin'  is  like  this. 
Huggins,  as  noted,  holds  down  the  Bird  Cage  Op'ry 
House  as  manager,  an'  when  he's-  drunk — which, 
seein'  that  Huggins  is  a  bigger  sot  than  Old  Monte, 
is  right  along — he  allows  he's  a  '  Impressario.' 
Mebby  you  saveys  '  Impressario,'  an'  experiences 
no  difficulty  with  the  same  as  a  term,  but  Boggs  an' 
Tutt  goes  to  the  fringe  of  a  gun  play  dispootin' 
about  its  meanin*  the  time  Huggins  plays  it  on  the 
camp  first  as  deescriptif  of  his  game. 

" '  A  Impressario  is  a  fiddler,'  says  Boggs  ;  '  I  cuts 
the  trail  of  one  in  the  States  once,  ropes  him  up,  an' 
we  has  a  shore  enough  time.' 

" '  Sech   observations,'    observes  Tutt,  to  whom 


The  Great  Wolfville  Strike*  5 

» 

Boggs  vouchsafes  this  information, '  sech  observa 
tions  make  me  tired.  They  displays  the  onlimited 
ability  for  ignorance  of  the  hooman  mind.  Boggs, 
I  don't  want  to  be  deemed  insultin',  but  you-all 
oughter  go  to  night-school  some'ers  ontil  you  learns 
the  roodiments  of  the  American  language.' 

"  When  this  yere  colloquy  ensooes,  I'm  away  on 
the  spring  round-up,  an'  tharfor  not  present  tharat ; 
but  as  good  a  jedge  as  Jack  Moore  insists  that  the 
remainder  of  the  conversation  would  have  come  off 
in  the  smoke  if  he  hadn't,  in  his  capacity  of  mar 
shal,  pulled  his  six-shooter  an'  invoked  Boggs  an* 
Tutt  to  a  ca'mer  mood. 

"  But  speakin'  of  this  Huggins  party,  I  never 
likes  him.  Aside  from  his  bein'  mostly  drunk, 
which,  no  matter  what  some  may  say  or  think,  I 
holds  impairs  a  gent's  valyoo  as  a  social  factor, 
Huggins  is  avaricious  an'  dotes  on  money  to  the 
p'int  of  bein'  sordid.  He'd  gloat  over  a  dollar  like 
it  was  a  charlotte  roose,  Huggins  would.  So,  as  I 
says,  I  ain't  fond  of  Huggins,  an'  takes  no  more 
pleasure  of  his  company  than  if  he's  a  wet  dog. 
Still,  thar's  sech  a  thing  as  dooty ;  so,  when  Hug- 
gins  comes  wanderin'  wild-eyed  into  the  Red  Light 
about  first  drink  time  one  evenin',  an'  confides  to 
me  in  a  whisper  that  thar's  a  jack  rabbit  outside 
which  has  sworn  to  take  his  life,  an'  is  right  then 
bushwhackin'  about  the  door  waitin'  to  execoote 
the  threat,  I  calls  Doc  Peets,  an'  aids  in  tyin'  Hug- 
gins  down  so  that  his  visions  can  be  met  an'  coped 
with  medical. 


6  Wolfviilc  Days* 

"  Peets  rides  herd  on  Huggins  for  about  a  week, 
an'  at  last  effects  his  rescoo  from  that  hostile  jack- 
rabbit  an'  them  crimson  rattlesnakes  an'  blue-winged 
bats  that  has  j'ined  dogs  with  it  in  its  attempts 
ag'in  Huggins.  Later,  when  Peets  sends  his 
charges,  this  yere  ingrate  Huggins — lovin'  money 
as  I  states — wants  to  squar'  it  with  a  quart  or  two 
of  whiskey  checks  on  the  Bird  Cage  bar.  Nacher- 
ally,  Peets  waves  aside  sech  ignoble  proffers  as  in 
sults  to  his  professional  standin'. 

"  *  An'  you-all  don't  owe  me  a  splinter,  Huggins,' 
says  Peets,  as  he  turns  down  the  prop'sition  to  take 
whiskey  checks  as  his  reward.  *  We'll  jest  call 
them  services  of  mine  in  subdooin'  your  delirium 
treemors  a  contreebution.  It  should  shorely  be 
remooneration  enough  to  know  that  I've  preserved 
you  to  the  Wolfville  public,  an'  that  the  camp  can 
still  boast  the  possession  of  the  meanest  sport  an' 
profoundest  drunkard  outside  of  the  Texas  Pan 
handle.' 

"  Bar  none,  Doc  Peets  is  the  bitterest  gent,  ver 
bal,  that  ever  makes  a  moccasin  track  in  the  South 
west.  An'  while  Huggins  ain't  pleased  none,  them 
strictures  has  to  go.  To  take  to  pawin'  'round  for 
turmoil  with  Peets  would  be  encroachin'  onto  the 
ediotic.  Even  if  he  emerges  alive  from  sech  con- 
troversies — an'  it's  four  to  one  he  wouldn't ;  for 
Peets,  who's  allers  framed  up  with  a  brace  of  der 
ringers,  is  about  as  vivid  an  enterprise  as  Wolfville 
affords — the  Stranglers  would  convene  with  Old 
Man  Enright  in  the  cha'r,  an*  Huggins  wouldn't 


The  Great  ^  oif  vtlle  Strike.  7 

last  as  long  as  a  drink  of  whiskey.  As  it  is,  Hug- 
gins  gulps  his  feelin's  an*  offers  nothin*  in  return  to 
Peets's  remarks. 

"  No  ;  of  course  Doc  Peets  ain't  that  diffusive  in 
his  confidences  as  to  go  surgin'  about  tellin'  this 
story  to  every  gent  he  meets.  It's  ag'in  roole  for 
physicians  that  a-way  to  go  draggin'  their  lariats 
'round  permiscus  an'  impartin'  all  they  knows. 
You-all  can  see  yourse'f  that  if  physicians  is  that 
ingenuous,  it  would  prodooce  all  sorts  of  troubles  in 
the  most  onlooked-for  places  an'  most  onexpected 
forms.  No ;  Peets  wouldn't  give  way  to  conduct 
so  onbecomin*  a  medicine  man  an'  a  sport.  But 
rooles  has  their  exceptions;  an'  so  Peets,  in  one  of 
them  moments  of  sympathy  an*  confidence,  which 
two  highly  eddicated  gents  after  the  eighth  drink 
is  bound  to  feel  for  each  other,  relates  to  Colonel 
Sterett  concernin'  Huggins  an'  his  perfidy  with 
them  Bird  Cage  checks. 

"  This  yere  onbosomin'  of  himse'f  to  the  Colonel 
ain't  none  discreet  of  Peets.  The  Colonel  has 
many  excellencies,  but  keepin'  secrets  ain't  among 
'em ;  none  whatever.  The  Colonel  is  deevoid  of 
jtalents  for  secrets,  an'  so  the  next  day  he  prints 
his  yere  outrage  onder  a  derisive  headline  touchin* 
Huggins'  froogality. 

11  Huggins  don't  grade  over-high  for  nerve  an'  is 
a  long  way  from  bein'  clean  strain  game  ;  but  he 
figgers,  so  I  allers  reckons,  that  the  Colonel  ain't 
no  thunderbolt  of  war  himse'f,  so  when  he  reads  as 
to  him  an*  Peets  an/  them  treemors  an'  the  whiskey 


\ 


8  Wolfvillc  Days* 

checks,  he  starts  in  to  drink  an'  discuss  about  his 
honor,  an'  gives  it  out  he'll  have  revenge. 

"  It's  the  barkeep  at  the  Red  Light  posts  Colonel 
Sterett  as  to  them  perils.  A  Mexican  comes  track- 
in*  along  into  the  Colonel's  room  in  the  second 
story — what  he  calls  his  *  sanctum  ' — with  a  note. 
It's  from  the  barkeep  an'  reads  like  this : 

RED  LIGHT  SALOON. 
DEAR  COLONEL:— 

Huggins  is  in  here  tankin'  up  an'  makin'  war  med 
icine.  He's  packin'  two  guns.  He  says  he's  going  to  plug 
you  for  that  piece.  I  can  keep  him  here  an  hour.  Mean 
while,  heel  yourse'f.  I'll  have  him  so  drunk  by  the  time  he 
leaves  that  he  ought  to  be  easy. 

Yours  sincerely, 

BLACK  JACK. 

P.  S.  Better  send  over  to  the  Express  Company  for  one 
of  them  shot-guns.  Buckshot,  that  a-way,  is  a  cinch ;  an'  if 
you're  a  leetle  nervous  it  don't  make  no  difference. 

B.  J. 

"  About  the  time  the  lo-gauge  comes  over  to  the 
Colonel,  with  the  compliments  of  the  Wells-Fargo 
Express,  an'  twenty  shells  holdin'  twenty-one  buck 
shot  to  the  shell,  Doc  Peets  himse'f  comes  sa'nterin' 
into  the  sanctum. 

"  '  You-all  ought  never  to  have  printed  it,  Col 
onel,'  says  Peets;  'I'm  plumb  chagrined  over  that 
exposure  of  Huggins.' 

"  '  Don't  you  reckon,  Doc,'  says  the  Colonel, 
sort  o'  coaxin'  the  play,  '  if  you  was  to  go  down  to 
the  Red  Light  an'  say  to  this  inebriated  miscreant 


The  Great  Wolfville  Strike.  9 

that  you  makes  good,  it  would  steady  him  down  a 
whole  lot  ?  ' 

"  '  If  I  was  to  take  sech  steps  as  you  urges,  Col- 
onel,'  says  Peets,  *  it  would  come  out  how  I  gives 
away  the  secrets  of  my  patients ;  it  would  hurt  my 
p'sition.  On  the  level !  Colonel,  I'd  a  mighty  sight 
sooner  you'd  beef  Huggins.' 

"  '  But  see  yere,  Doc,'  remonstrates  the  Colonel, 
wipin'  off  the  water  on  his  fore'ead, '  murder  is  new 
to  me,  an'  I  shrinks  from  it.  Another  thing — I 
don't  thirst  to  do  no  five  or  ten  years  at  Leaven- 
worth  for  downin'  Huggins,  an'  all  on  account  of 
you  declinin*  whiskey  chips  as  a  honorarium  for 
them  services.' 

"  *  It  ain't  no  question  of  Leavenworth,'  argues 
Peets  ;  '  sech  thoughts  is  figments.  Yere'show  it'll 
be.  Huggins  comes  chargin'  up,  hungerin'  for 
blood.  You-all  is  r'ared  back  yere  with  that  10- 
gauge,  all  organized,  an'  you  coldly  downs  him. 
Thar  ain't  no  jury,  an'  thar  ain't  no  Vigilance  Com 
mittee,  in  Arizona,  who's  goin'  to  carp  at  that  a 
little  bit.  Besides,  he's  that  ornery,  the  game  law 
is  out  on  Huggins  an'  has  been  for  some  time.  As 
for  any  resk  to  yourse'f,  personal,  from  Huggins  ; 
why  !  Colonel,  you  snaps  your  fingers  tharat.  You 
hears  Huggins  on  the  stairs  ;  an'  you  gives  him 
both  barrels  the  second  he  shows  in  the  door.  It's 
as  plain  as  monte.  Before  Huggins  can  declar' 
himse'f,  Colonel,  he's  yours,  too  dead  to  skin.  It's 
sech  a  shore  thing,'  concloodes  Peets,  '  that,  after 
all,  since  you're  merely  out  for  safety,  I'd  get  him 


io  Wolfville  Days* 

in  the  wing,  an'  let  it  go  at  that.  Once  his  arm  is 
gone,  it  won't  be  no  trouble  to  reason  with  Hug- 
gins.' 

"  '  Don't  talk  to  me  about  no  arms/  retorts  the 
Colonel,  still  moppin'  his  feachers  plenty  desperate. 
'  I  ain't  goin'  to  do  no  fancy  shootin'.  If  Huggins 
shows  up  yere,  you  can  put  down  a  yellow  stack  on 
it,  I'll  bust  him  where  he  looks  biggest.  Huggins 
is  goin'  to  take  all  the  chances  of  this  embroglio.' 

"  But  Huggins  never  arrives.  It's  Dan  Boggs 
who  abates  him  an*  assoomes  the  pressure  for  the 
Colonel.  Boggs  is  grateful  over  some  compliments 
the  Colonel  pays  him  in  the  Coyote  the  week  pre 
vious.  It's  right  in  the  midst  of  Huggins'  prep'ra- 
tions  for  blood  that  Boggs  happens  up  on  him  in 
the  Red  Light. 

"  '  See  yere,  Huggins,*  says  Boggs,  as  soon  as 
ever  he  gets  the  Impressario's  grievance  straight  in 
his  mind,  'you-all  is  followin*  off  the  wrong  wagon 
track.  The  Colonel  ain't  your  proper  prey  at  all  ; 
it's  me.  I  contreebutes  that  piece  in  the  Coyote 
about  you  playin'  it  low  on  Peets  myse'f.' 

"  Huggins  gazes  at  Boggs  an'  never  utters  a  word  ; 
Boggs  is  too  many  for  him. 

"  '  Which  I'm  the  last  sport/  observes  Boggs  after 
a  pause,  *  to  put  a  limit  on  the  reecreations  or 
meddle  with  the  picnics  of  any  gent,  but  this  yere 
voylence  of  yours,  Huggins,  has  gone  too  far.  I'm 
obleeged  to  say,  tharfore,  that  onless  you  aims  to 
furnish  the  painful  spectacle  of  me  bendin'  a  gun 
over  your  head,  you  had  better  sink  into  silence  an* 


The  Great  "Wolfville  Strike.  n 

pull  your  freight.  I'm  a  slow,  hard  team  to  start, 
Huggins,'  says  Boggs,  '  but  once  I  goes  into  the 
collar,  I'm  irresistible.' 

"  Huggins  don't  know  much,  but  he  knows  Boggs  ; 
an*  so,  followin'  Boggs'  remarks,  Huggins  ups  an' 
ceases  to  clamor  for  the  Colonel  right  thar.  Lambs 
is  bellig'rent  compared  with  Huggins.  The  bar- 
keep,  in  the  interests  of  peace,  cuts  in  on  the  play 
with  the  news  that  the  drinks  is  on  the  house,  an' 
with  that  the  eepisode  comes  to  a  close. 

"  Now  you-all  has  most  likely  begun  to  marvel 
where  them  labor  struggles  comes  buttin*  in.  We're 
within  ropin'  distance  now.  It's  not  made  cl'ar,  but, 
as  I  remarks  prior,  I  allers  felt  like  Huggins  is 
the  bug  onder  the  chip  when  them  printers  gets 
hostile  that  time  an'  leaves  the  agency.  Huggins 
ain't  feeble  enough  mental  to  believe  for  a  moment 
Boggs  writes  that  piece.  The  fact  that  Boggs  can't 
even  write  his  own  name — bein'  onfortunately 
wantin'  utterly  in  eddication — is  of  itse'f  enough  to 
breed  doubts.  Still,  I  don't  ondervalue  Huggins 
none  in  layin'  down  to  Boggs,  that  time  Boggs 
allows  he's  the  author.  With  nothin'  at  stake  more 
than  a  fact,  an*  no  money  up  nor  nothin',  he  shorely 
wouldn't  be  jestified  in  contendin'  with  a  gent  of 
Boggs'  extravagant  impulses,  an'  who  is  born  with 
the  theery  that  six-shooters  is  argyments. 

"  But,  as  I  was  observin',  Huggins  is  no  more 
misled  by  them  bluffs  of  Boggs  than  he  is  likely  to 
give  up  his  thoughts  of  revenge  on  the  Colonel. 
Bein'  headed  off  from  layin'  for  the  Colonel  direct — • 


12  Wolfville  Days. 

for  Boggs  reminds  him  at  closin'  that,  havin'  asserted 
his  personal  respons'bility  for  that  piece,  he'll  take 
it  as  affronts  if  Huggins  persists  in  goin'  projectin' 
'round  for  Colonel  Sterett — thar's  no  doubt  in  my 
mind  that  Huggins  goes  to  slyin' about,  an'  jumpin' 
sideways  at  them  printers  on  the  quiet,  an  fillin'  'em 
up  with  nose-paint  an'  notions  that  they're  wronged 
in  equal  quantities.  An'  Huggins  gets  results. 

"  Which  the  Colonel  pays  off  his  five  printers 
every  week.  It's  mebby  the  second  Saturday  after 
the  Huggins  trouble,  an*  the  Colonel  is  jest  finished 
measurin'  up  the  '  strings,'  as  he  calls  'em,  an'  dis- 
bursin'  the  dinero.  At  the  finish,  the  head-printer 
stiffens  up,  an'  the  four  others  falls  back  a  pace  an' 
looks  plenty  hard. 

"  '  Colonel,'  says  the  head-printer,  *  we-all  sends 
on  to  the  national  council,  wins  out  a  charter,  an' 
organizes  ourse'fs  into  a  union.  You're  yereby 
notified  we  claims  union  wages,  the  same  bein' 
forty-five  centouse  a  thousand  ems  from  now  ontil 
further  orders.' 

"'Jim,'  retorts  the  Colonel,  'what  you  an'  your 
noble  assistants  demands  at  my  hands,  goes.  From 
now  I  pays  the  union  schedoole,  the  same  bein'  five 
cents  a  thousand  ems  more  than  former.  The 
Coyote  as  yet  is  not  se'f-supportin' ;  but  that  shall 
not  affect  this  play.  I  have  so  far  made  up  deefi- 
ciencies  by  draw-poker,  which  I  finds  to  be  fairly 
soft  an'  certain  in  this  camp,  an'  your  su'gestions  of 
a  raise  merely  means  that  I've  got  to  set  up  a  leetle 
later  in  a  game,  an'  be  a  trifle  more  remorseless  on 


The  Great  Wolfville  Strike.  13 

a  shore  hand.  Wharfore  I  yields  to  your  requests 
with  pleasure,  as  I  says  prior.' 

"  It's  mighty  likely  Colonel  Sterett  acquiesces  in 
them  demands  too  quick  ;  the  printers  is  led  to  the 
thought  that  he's  as  simple  to  work  as  a  Winchester. 
It's  hooman  nature  to  brand  as  many  calves  as  you 
can,  an'  so  no  one's  surprised  when,  two  weeks 
later,  them  voracious  printers  comes  frontin*  up  for 
more.  The  head-printer  stiffens  up,  an'  the  four 
others  assoomes  eyes  of  iron,  same  as  before,  an' 
the  pow  wow  re-opens  as  follows : 

"  '  Colonel,'  says  the  range  boss  for  the  printers, 
while  the  others  stands  lookin'  an'  listenin'  like 
cattle  with  their  y'ears  all  for'ard,  '  Colonel,  the 
chapel's  had  a  meetin',  an*  we-all  has  decided  that 
you've  got  to  make  back  payments  at  union  rates 
for  the  last  six  months,  which  is  when  we  sends 
back  to  the  States  for  that  charter.  The  whole 
throw  is  twelve  hundred  dollars,  or  two  hundred 
and  forty  a  gent.  No  one  wants  to  crowd  your 
hand,  Colonel,  an'  if  you  don't  jest  happen  to  have 
said  twelve  hundred  in  your  war-bags,  we  allows 
you  one  week  to  jump  'round  an'  rustle  it/ 

"  But  the  Colonel  turns  out  bad,  an'  shows  he  can 
protect  himse'f  at  printin'  same  as  he  can  at  poker. 
He  whirls  on  them  sharps  like  a  mountain  lion. 

"  '  Gents/  says  the  Colonel,  *  you-all  is  up  ag'inst 
it.  I  don't  care  none  if  the  cathedral's  had  a 
meetin',  I  declines  to  bow  to  your  claims.  As  I 
states  before,  I  obtains  the  money  to  conduct  this 
yere  journal  by  playin'  poker.  Now  I  can't  play  no 


14  Wolfvillc  Days. 

ex  post  facto  poker,  nor  get  in  on  any  reetroactive 
hands,  which  of  itse'f  displays  your  attitoode  on 
this  o'casion  as  onjust.  What  you-all  asks  is  re- 
foosed.' 

"  '  See  yere,  Colonel,*  says  the  head-printer,  be- 
ginnin*  to  arch  his  back  like  he's  goin'  to  buck 
some,  'don't  put  on  no  spurs  to  converse  with  us; 
an'  don't  think  to  stampede  us  none  with  them  Latin 
bluffs  you  makes.  You  either  pays  union  rates 
since  February,  or  we  goes  p'intin'  out  for  a  strike.' 

"  '  Strike !  '  says  the  Colonel,  an'  his  tones  is  de 
cisive,  t  strike,  says  you !  Which  if  you-all  will 
wait  till  I  gets  my  coat,  I'll  strike  with  you.' 

"  Tharupon  the  entire  passel,  the  Colonel  an* 
them  five  printers,  comes  over  to  the  Red  Light, 
takes  a  drink  on  the  Colonel,  an'  disperses  themse'fs 
on  the  strike.  Of  course  Wolfville  looks  on  some 
amazed  at  this  yere  labor  movement,  but  declar's 
itse'f  nootral. 

"  '  Let  every  gent  skin  his  own  eel,'  says  Enright ; 
1  the  same  bein'  a  fav'rite  proverb  back  in  Tennessee 
when  I'm  a  yooth.  This  collision  between  Colonel 
Sterett  an*  them  free  an*  independent  printers  he 
has  in  his  herd  is  shorely  what  may  be  called  a 
private  game.  Thar's  no  reason  an*  no  call  for  the 
camp  to  be  heard.  What's  your  idee,  Doc?  ' 

"  *  I  yoonites  with  you  in  them  statements,'  says 
Peets.  *  While  my  personal  symp'thies  is  with 
Colonel  Sterett  in  this  involvement,  as  yet  the  sityoo- 
ation  offers  no  reason  for  the  public  to  saddle  up  an' 
go  to  ridin'  'round  tharin.* 


The  Great  Wolfvilie  Strike.  15 

"  '  Don't  you-all  think/  says  Boggs,  appealin'  to 
Enright,  *  don't  you  reckon  now  if  me  an'  Tutt  an' 
Jack  Moore,  all  casooal  like,  was  to  take  our  guns 
an'  go  cuttin'  up  the  dust  about  the  moccasins  of 
them  malcontent  printers — merely  in  our  private 
capacity,  I  means — it  would  he'p  solve  this  yere 
deadlock  a  whole  lot  ?  '  Boggs  is  a  heap  headlong 
that  a-way,  an'  likin'  the  Colonel,  nacherally  he's 
eager  to  take  his  end. 

" '  Boggs,'  replies  Enright,  an'  his  tones  is  stern 
to  the  verge  of  being  ferocious ;  '  Boggs,  onless  you 
wants  the  law-abidin'  element  to  hang  you  in  hob 
bles,  you  had  better  hold  yourse'f  in  more  subjec 
tion.  Moreover,  what  you  proposes  is  childish.  If 
you  was  to  appear  in  the  midst  of  this  industr'al  ex 
citement,  an'  take  to  romancin'  'round  as  you  su'- 
gests,  you'd  chase  every  one  of  these  yere  printers 
plumb  off  the  range.  Which  they'd  hit  a  few  high 
places  in  the  landscape  an'  be  gone  for  good.  Then 
the  Colonel  never  could  get  out  that  Coyote  paper 
no  more.  Let  the  Colonel  fill  his  hand  an'  play  it 
his  own  way.  I'll  bet,  an*  go  as  far  as  you  like, 
that  if  we-all  turns  our  backs  on  this,  an*  don't  take 
to  pesterin'  either  side,  the  Colonel  has  them  par 
ties  all  back  in  the  corral  ag'in  inside  of  a  week.' 

"  Old  Man  Enright  is  right,  same  as  he  ever  is. 
It's  about  fourth  drink  time  in  the  evenin'  of  the 
second  day.  Colonel  Sterett,  who's  been  con- 
soomin'  his  licker  at  intervals  not  too  long  apart,  is 
seated  in  the  Red  Light  in  a  reelaxed  mood.  He's 
sayin'  to  Boggs,  who  has  been  faithful  at  his  elbow 


16  Wolfvillc  Days. 

from  the  first,  so  as  to  keep  up  his  sperits,  that  he 
looks  on  this  strike  as  affordin*  him  a  much-needed 
rest. 

"  *  An'  from  the  standpoint  of  rest,  Dan,'  observes 
the  Colonel  to  Boggs  as  the  barkeep  brings  them 
fresh  glasses,  '  I  really  welcomes  this  difference 
with  them  blacksmiths  of  mine.  I  shorely  needs 
this  lay-off  ;  literatoor  that  a-way,  Dan,  an'  partic'lar 
daily  paper  literatoor  of  the  elevated  character  I've 
been  sawin'  off  on  this  camp  in  the  Coyote,  is  fa- 
tiguin'  to  the  limit.  When  them  misguided  parties 
surrenders  their  absurd  demands — an'  between  us, 
Dan,  I  smells  Huggins  in  this  an'  expects  to  lay  for 
him  later  tharfor — I  say,  when  these  obtoose  print 
ers  gives  up,  an*  returns  to  their  'llegiance,  I'll  as- 
soome  the  tripod  like  a  giant  refreshed.' 

"  *  That's  whatever  ! '  says  Boggs,  coincidin'  with 
the  Colonel,  though  he  ain't  none  shore  as  to  his 
drift. 

" '  I'll  be  recooperated,'  continues  the  Colonel, 
sloppin'  out  another  drink ;  l  I'll  be  a  new  man 
when  I  takes  hold  ag'in,  an'  will  make  the  Coyote, 
ever  theleadin'  medium  of  the  Southwest,  as  strong 
an'  invincible  as  four  kings  an'  a  ace.' 

"  It's  at  this  p'int  the  five  who's  on  the  warpath 
comes  into  the  Red  Light.  The  head-printer, 
lookin'  apol'getic  an*  dejected,  j'ins  Boggs  an'  the 
Colonel  where  they  sits. 

" '  Colonel,'  observes  the  head-printer,  *  the 
chapel's  had  another  meetin' ;  an'  the  short  an'  the 
long  is,  the  boys  kind  o'  rigger  they're  onjust  in 


The  Great  Wolfville  Strike.  17 

them  demands  for  back  pay — sort  o'  overplays  their 
hands.  They've  decided,  Colonel,  that  you're  dead 
right ;  an'  I'm  yere  now  to  say  we're  sorry,  an*  we'll 
all  go  back  an*  open  up  an*  get  the  Coyote  out  ag'in 
in  old-time  form.' 

"  '  Have  a  drink,  Jim,'  says  the  Colonel,  an'  his 
face  has  a  cloud  of  regrets  onto  it ;  '  take  four  fingers 
of  this  red-eye  an'  cheer  up.  You-all  assoomes  too 
sombre  a  view  of  this  contention.' 

"  '  I'm  obleeged  to  you,  Colonel,'  replies  the  head- 
printer  ;  '  but  I  don't  much  care  to  drink  none  be 
fore  the  boys.  They  ain't  got  no  bank-roll  an'  no 
credit  like  you  has,  Colonel — that's  what  makes 
them  see  their  errors — an'  the  plain  trooth  is  they 
ain't  had  nothin'  to  drink  for  twenty-four  hours. 
That's  why  I  don't  take  nothin'.  It  would  shore 
seem  invidious  for  me  to  be  settin'  yere  h'istin'  in 
my  nose-paint,  an'  my  pore  comrades  lookin'  he'p- 
lessly  on;  that's  whatever!  I'm  too  much  a  friend 
of  labor  to  do  it,  Colonel.' 

"'What!'  says  Boggs,  quite  wrought  up;  'do 
you-all  mean  to  tell  me  them  onhappy  sports 
ain't  had  a  drink  since  yesterday?  It's  a  stain  on 
the  camp !  Whoopee,  barkeep !  see  what  them 
gents  will  have ;  an'  keep  seein'  what  they'll  have 
endoorin'  this  conference.' 

" '  Jim,'  says  the  Colonel,  mighty  reluctant, 
1  ain't  you-all  abandonin' your  p'sition  prematoor? 
Thar's  somethin'  doo  to  a  principle,  Jim.  I'd 
rather  looked  for  a  continyooation  of  this  estrange 
ment  for  a  while  at  least.  I'd  shore  take  time  to 
consider  it  before  ever  I'd  let  this  strike  c'llapse.' 


1 8  Wolfville  Days, 

"  '  That's  all  right,  Colonel,'  says  the  head-printer, 
'about  c'llapsin' ;  an'  I  onderstands  your  feelin's 
an'  symp'thises  tharwith.  But  I've  explained  to 
you  the  financial  condition  of  this  movement. 
Thar  stands  the  boys,  pourin'  in  the  first  fire-water 
that  has  passed  their  lips  for  a  day.  An*  you 
knows,  Colonel,  no  gent,  nor  set  of  gents,  can 
conduct  strikes  to  a  successful  issue  without 
whiskey.' 

"  '  But,  Jim,'  pleads  the  Colonel,  who  hates  to 
come  off  his  vacation,  'if  I  fixes  the  Red  Light 
say  for  fifteen  drinks  all  'round  each  day,  don't 
you  reckon  you  can  prevail  on  them  recalcitrant 
printers  to  put  this  reeconciliation  off  a  week?' 

"  However,  Enright,  who  at  this  p'int  comes 
trailin'  in,  takes  up  the  head-printer's  side,  an* 
shows  the  Colonel  it's  his  dooty. 

"'You  owes  it  to  the  Wolfville  public, 
Colonel/  says  Enright.  '  The  Coyote  has  now  been 
suppressed  two  days.  We-all  has  been  deprived 
of  our  daily  enlightenment  an'  our  intellects  is 
boggin'  down.  For  two  entire  days  Wolfville  has 
been  in  darkness  as  to  worldly  events,  an'  is  right 
now  knockin'  'round  in  the  problem  of  existence 
like  a  blind  dog  in  a  meat  shop.  Your  attitoode 
of  delay,  Colonel,  is  impossible  ;  the  public  requests 
your  return.  If  you  ain't  back  at  the  Coyote 
office  to-morry  mornin'  by  second  drink  time, 
dealin'  your  wonted  game,  I  wouldn't  ondertake 
to  state  what  shape  a  jest  pop'lar  resentment  will 
assoome.' 


The  Great  Wolfville  Strike*  19 

"  *  An',  of  course/  observes  the  Colonel  with  a 
sigh,  'when  you-all  puts  it  in  that  loocid  an' 
convincin'  way,  Enright,  thar's  no  more  to  be 
said.  The  strike  is  now  over  an'  the  last  kyard 
dealt.  Jim,  you  an'  me  an'  them  printers  will 
return  to  the  vineyard  of  our  efforts.  This  over 
work  may  be  onderminin'  me,  but  Wolfville  shall 
not  call  to  me  in  vain.'  ' 


CHAPTER.  JL 
The  Grinding  of  Dave  Tutt, 

"YES,"  said  the  Old  Cattleman,  as  he  took  off 
his  sombrero  and  contemplated  the  rattlesnake 
band  which  environed  the  crown,  "  cow-punchers 
is  queer  people.  They  needs  a  heap  of  watchin' 
an'  herdin'.  I  knowed  one  by  the  name  of 
Stevenson  down  on  the  Turkey  Track,  as  merits 
plenty  of  lookin*  after.  This  yere  Stevenson 
ain't  exactly  ornery ;  but  bein'  restless,  an'  with  a 
disp'sition  to  be  emphatic  whenever  he's  fillin' 
himse'f  up,  keepin'  your  eye  on  him  is  good,  safe 
jedgment.  He  is  public-sperited,  too,  an'  some 
times  takes  lots  of  pains  to  please  folks  an*  be 
pop'lar. 

"  I  recalls  once  when  we're  bringin'  up  a  beef 
herd  from  the  Panhandle  country.  We're  ag'in 
the  south  bank  of  the  Arkansaw,  tryin'  to  throw 
the  herd  across.  Thar's  a  bridge,  but  the  natifs 
allows  it's  plenty  weak,  so  we're  makin*  the  herd 
swim.  Steve  is  posted  at  the  mouth  of  the  bridge, 
to  turn  back  any  loose  cattle  that  takes  a  notion  to 
try  an'  cross  that  a-way.  Thar's  nothin'  much  to 


The  Grinding;  of  Dave  Tutt,  21 

engage  Steve's  faculties,  an*  he's  a-settin'  on  his 
bronco,  an'  both  is  mighty  near  asleep.  Some 
women  people — from  the  far  East,  I  reckons — as  is 
camped  in  town,  comes  over  on  the  bridge  to  see 
us  cross  the  herd.  They've  lined  out  clost  up 
to  Steve,  a-leanin'  of  their  young  Eastern  chins  on 
the  top  rail. 

" '  Which  I  don't  regyard  this  much/  says  one 
young  woman  j  '  thar's  no  thrill  into  it.  Whyever 
don't  they  do  somethiri'  excitin'?' 

"  Steve  observes  with  chagrin  that  this  yere  lady 
is  displeased  ;  an',  as  he  can't  rigger  nothin'  else 
out  quick  to  entertain  her,  he  gives  a  whoop,  slams 
his  six-shooter  off  into  the  scenery,  socks  his  spurs 
into  the  pony,  an'  hops  himse'f  over  the  side  of  the 
bridge  a  whole  lot  into  the  shallow  water  below. 
The  jump  is  some  twenty  feet  an'  busts  the  pony's 
laigs  like  toothpicks  ;  also  it  breaks  Steve  s  collar 
bone  an'  disperses  his  feachers  'round  some  free  an' 
frightful  on  account  of  his  sort  o'  lightin*  on  his 
face. 

"  Well,  we  shoots  the  pony  :  an'  Steve  rides  in 
the  grub  wagon  four  or  five  days  recooperatin'. 
It  s  jest  the  mercy  of  hell  he  don't  break  his  neck. 

"  '  Whatever  do  you  jump  off  for?'  I  asks  Steve 
when  he's  comin'  'round. 

" '  Which  I  performs  said  equestrianisms  to 
amoose  that  she-shorthorn  who  is  cussin'  us  out,' 
says  Steve  *  I  ain't  permittin'  for  her  to  go  back 
to  the  States,  malignin'  of  us  cow-men/ 

"  Steve    gets   himse'f  downed  a  year    after,  an* 


22  Wolfvillc  Days. 

strikes  out  for  new  ranges  in  the  skies.  He's  over 
on  the  upper  Red  River  when  he  gets  creased. 
He's  settin'  into  a  poker  game. 

"  Steve  never  oughter  gambled  none.  He  is  a 
good  cow-boy — splendid  round-up  hand — an' can  do 
his  day's  work  with  rope  or  iron  in  a  brandin'  pen 
with  anybody ;  but  comin*  right  to  cases,  he 
don't  know  no  more  about  playin*  poker  than  he 
does  about  preachin'.  Actooally,  he'd  back  two 
pa'r  like  thar's  no  record  of  their  bein*  beat.  This 
yere,  of  course,  leads  to  frequent  poverty,  but  it 
don't  confer  no  wisdom  on  Steve. 

"  On  this  o'casion,  when  they  ships  Steve  for  the 
realms  of  light,  one  of  the  boys  gets  a  trey-full ; 
Steve  being  possessed  of  a  heart  flush,  nine  at  the 
head.  In  two  minutes  he  don't  have  even  his 
blankets  left. 

44  After  he's  broke,  Steve  h'ists  in  a  drink  or  two 
an*  sours  'round  a  whole  lot ;  an'  jest  as  the  trey- 
full  boy  gets  into  his  saddle,  Steve  comes  roamin' 
along  up  an'  hails  him. 

"  *  Pard,'  says  Steve,  a  heap  gloomy,  '  I've  been 
tryin'  to  school  myse'f  to  b'ar  it,  but  it  don't  go. 
Tharfore,  I'm  yere  to  say  you  steals  that  pa'r  of 
kings  as  completed  my  rooin.  Comin'  to  them  de 
cisions,  I'm  goin'  to  call  on  you  for  that  bric-a-brac 
I  lose,  an'  I  looks  to  gain  some  fav'rable  replies.' 

"  *  Oh,  you  do,  do  you  !  '  says  the  trey-full  boy. 
'  Which  you-all  is  a  heap  too  sanguine.  Do  you 
reckon  I  gives  up  the  frootes  of  a  trey-full — as 
hard  a  hand  to  hold  as  that  is?  You  can  go  ten  to 


The  Grinding  of  Dave  Tutt.  23 

one  I  won't :  not  this  round-up !     Sech  requests  is 
preepost'rous  ! ' 

"  '  Don't  wax  flippant  about  this  yere  robbery, 
says  Steve.  '  It's  enough  to  be  plundered  without 
bein'  insulted  by  gayeties.  Now,  what  I  says  is 
this:  Either  I  gets  my  stuff,  or  I  severs  our  relations 
with  a  gun/  An'  tharupon  Steve  pulls  his  pistol  an' 
takes  hold  of  the  trey-full  boy's  bridle. 

"  '  If  thar's  one  thing  makes  me  more  weary  than 
another,'  says  the  trey-full  boy,  l  it's  a  gun  play ; 
an'  to  avoid  sech  exhibitions  I  freely  returns  your 
plunder.  But  you  an*  me  don't  play  kyards  no 
more.' 

"  Whereupon,  the  trey-full  boy  gets  off  his  hoss, 
an'  Steve,  allowin'  the  debate  is  closed,  puts  up  his 
gun.  Steve  is  preematoor.  The  next  second, 
'bang!'  goes  the  trey-full  boy's  six-shooter,  the 
bullet  gets  Steve  in  the  neck,  with  them  heavenly 
results  I  yeretofore  onfolds,  an'  at  first  drink  time 
that  evenin'  we  has  a  hasty  but  successful  fooneral. 

" '  I  don't  reckon,'  says  Wat  Peacock,  who  is 
range  boss,  '  thar's  need  of  havin'  any  law-suits 
about  this  yere  killirT.  I  knows  Steve  for  long  an' 
likes  him.  But  I'm  yere  to  announce  that  them 
idees  he  fosters  concernin'  the  valyoo  of  poker 
hands,  onreasonable  an'  plumb  extrav'gant  as  they 
shorely  is,  absolootely  preeclooded  Steve's  reachin' 
to  old  age.  An'  Steve  has  warnin's.  Once  when  he 
tries  to  get  his  life  insured  down  in  Austin,  he's  re- 
foosed. 

"  ' "  In  a  five-hand  game,  table  stakes,  what  is  a 


24  Wolfvillc  Days, 

pair  of  aces  worth  before  the  draw  ?  "  is  one  of  them 
questions  that  company  asks. 

"  '  "  Table  stakes  ?  "  says  Steve.  "  Every  chip 
you've  got." 

"  '  "  That  settles  it,"  says  the  company  ;  "  we 
don't  want  no  sech  resk.  Thar  never  is  sech  reck 
lessness  !  You  won't  live  a  year  ;  you're  lucky  to  be 
alive  right  now."  An'  they  declines  to  insure  Steve.' 

"  However,"  continued  my  friend  musingly, 
"  I've  been  puttin'  it  up  to  myself,  that  mighty 
likely  I  does  wrong  to  tell  you  these  yere  tales. 
Which  you're  ignorant  of  cow  folks,  an*  for  me  to 
go  onloadin'  of  sech  revelations  mebby  gives  you 
impressions  that's  a  lot  erroneous.  Now  I  reckons 
from  that  one  eepisode  you  half  figgers  cow  people 
is  morose  an'  ferocious  as  a  bunch?" 

As  the  old  gentleman  gave  his  tones  the  in 
flection  of  inquiry,  I  hastened  to  interpose  divers 
flattering  denials.  His  recitals  had  inspired  an  ad 
miration  for  cow  men  rather  than  the  reverse. 

This  setting  forth  of  my  approval  pleased  him. 
He  gave  me  his  word  that  I  in  no  sort  assumed  too 
much  in  the  matter.  Cow  men,  he  asserted,  were 
a  light-hearted  brood ;  over-cheerful,  perhaps,  at 
times,  and  seeking  amusement  in  ways  beyond  the 
understanding  of  the  East ;  but  safe,  upright, 
and  of  splendid  generosity.  Eager  to  correct 
within  me  any  mal-effects  of  the  tragedy  just  told, 
he  recalled  the  story  of  a  Tucson  day  of  merry  re 
laxation  with  Dave  Tutt.  He  opined  that  it  fur 
nished  a  picture  of  the  people  of  cows  in  lighter, 


The  Grinding:  of  Dave  Tutt.  25 

brighter  colors,  and  so  gave  me  details  with  a 
sketchy  gladness. 

"  Which  you're  acc'rate  in  them  thoughts,"  he 
said,  referring  to  my  word  that  I  held  cow  folk  to 
be  engaging  characters.  After  elevating  his  spirit 
with  a  clove,  he  went  forward.  "  Thar  ain't  much 
paw  an*  bellow  to  a  cowboy.  Speakin*  gen'ral,  an* 
not  allowin*  for  them  inflooences  which  disturbs  none 
— I  adverts  to  mescal  an'  monte,  an*  sech  abnormal 
ities — he's  passive  an*  easy  ;  no  more  harm  into  him 
than  a  jack  rabbit. 

"  Of  course  he  has  his  moods  to  be  merry,  an* 
mebby  thar's  hours  when  he's  gay  to  the  p'int  of 
over-play.  But  his  heart's  as  straight  as  a  rifle  bar'l 
every  time. 

"  It's  a  day  I  puts  in  with  Dave  Tutt  which  makes 
what  these  yere  law-sharps  calls  '  a  case  in  p'int/ 
an'  which  I  relates  without  reserve.  It  gives  you 
some  notion  of  how  a  cowboy,  havin'  a  leesure 
hour,  onbuckles  an'  is  happy  nacheral. 

"  This  yere  is  prior  to  Dave  weddin'  Tucson 
Jennie.  I'm  pirootin'  'round  Tucson  with  Dave  at 
the  time,  Dave's  workin'  a  small  bunch  of  cattle, 
'way  over  near  the  Cow  Springs,  an'  is  in  Tucson 
for  a  rest.  We've  been  sloshin'  'round  the  Oriental 
all  day,  findin'  new  virchoos  in  the  whiskey,  an* 
amoosin'  ourse'fs  at  our  own  expense,  when  about 
fifth  drink  time  in  the  evenin'  Dave  allows  he's 
some  sick  of  sech  revels,  an'  concloods  he'll  p'int 
out  among  the  'dobys,  sort  o'  explorin'  things  up  a 
lot.  Which  we  tharupon  goes  in  concert. 


26  "Woifville  Days* 

"  I  ain't  frothin'  at  the  mouth  none  to  go  myse'f, 
not  seein'  reelaxation  in  pokin'  about  permiscus 
among  a  passel  of  Mexicans,  an'  me  loathin*  of  'em 
from  birth ;  but  I  goes,  aimin*  to  ride  herd  on 
Dave.  Which  his  disp'sition  is  some  free  an*  va 
rious  ;  an'  bein'  among  Mexicans,  that  a-way,  he's 
liable  to  mix  himse'f  into  trouble.  Not  that  Dave 
is  bad,  none  whatever ;  but  bein'  seven  or  eight 
drinks  winner,  an'  of  that  Oriental  whiskey,  too,  it 
broadens  him  an'  makes  him  feel  friendly,  an'  de- 
loodes  him  into  claimin'  acquaintance  with  people 
he  never  does  know,  an'  refoosin*  to  onderstand 
how  they  shows  symptoms  of  doubt.  So  we  capers 
along ;  Dave  warblin'  '  The  Death  of  Sam  Bass '  in 
the  coyote  key. 

"The  sefioras  an'  sefioritas,  hearin*  the  row, 
would  look  out  an'  smile,  an'  Dave  would  wave  his 
big  hat  an'  whoop  from  glee.  If  he  starts  toward 
'em,  aimin'  for  a  powwow — which  he  does  frequent, 
bein'  a  mighty  amiable  gent  that  a-way — they  car- 
ols  forth  a  squawk  immediate  an'  shets  the  door. 
Dave  goes  on.  Mebby  he  gives  the  door  a  kick  or 
two,  a-proclaimin'  of  his  discontent. 

"  All  at  once,  while  we're  prowlin'  up  one  of 
them  spacious  alleys  a  Mexican  thinks  is  a  street, 
we  comes  up  on  a  Eytalian  with  a  music  outfit 
which  he's  grindin'.  This  yere  music  ain't  so  bad, 
an*  I  hears  a  heap  worse  strains.  As  soon  as  Dave 
sees  him  he  tries  to  rigger  on  a  dance,  but  the  '  local 
talent '  declines  to  dance  with  him. 

"  '  In  which  event,'  says  Dave,  '  I  plays  a  lone 
hand/ 


The  Grinding  of  Dave  Tutt.  27 

"  So  Dave  puts  up  a  small  dance,  like  a  Navajo, 
accompanyin'  of  himse'f  with  outcries  same  as  a 
Injun.  But  the  Eytalian  don't  play  Dave's  kind  of 
music,  an'  the  baile  comes  to  a  halt. 

"  '  Whatever  is  the  matter  with  this  yere  tune-i 
box,  anyhow  ?  '  says  Dave.  '  Gimme  the  music* 
for  a  green-corn  dance,  an'  don't  make  no  delay.' 

"  *  This  yere  gent  can't  play  no  green-corn  dance,' 
I  says. 

"  '  He  can't,  can't  he?  '  says  Dave  ;  '  wait  till  he 
ropes  at  it  once.  I  knows  this  gent  of  yore.  I 
meets  him  two  years  ago  in  El  Paso  ;  which  me  an' 
him  shorely  shakes  up  that  village.1 

"  '  Whatever  is  his  name,  then  ?'  I  asks. 

"  '  Antonio  Marino,'  says  the  Eytalian. 

"  '  Merino  ?  '  says  Dave  ;  '  that's  right.  I  recalls 
it,  'cause  it  makes  me  think  at  the  jump  he's  a 
sheep  man,  an'  I  gets  plumb  hostile.' 

"  *  I  never  sees  you,'  says  the  Eytalian. 

"  '  Yes  you  do,'  says  Dave  ;  '  you  jest  think  you 
didn't  see  me.  We  drinks  together,  an'  goes  out 
an*  shoots  up  the  camp,  arm  an'  arm.' 

"  But  the  Eytalian  insists  he  never  meets  Dave. 
This  makes  Dave  ugly  a  lot,  an'  before  I  gets  to 
butt  in  an'  stop  it,  he  outs  with  his  six-shooter,  an' 
puts  a  hole  into  the  music-box. 

" '  These  yere  tunes  I  hears  so  far,'  says  Dave, 
'  is  too  frivolous  ;  I  riggers  that  oughter  sober  'em 
down  a  whole  lot.' 

"  When  Dave  shoots,  the  Eytalian  party  heaves 
the  strap  of  his  hewgag  over  his  head,  an'  flies. 


28  Wolfville  Days. 

Dave  grabs  the  music-box,  keepin'  it  from  fallin', 
an'  then  begins  turnin'  the  crank  to  try  it.  It 
plays  all  right,  only  every  now  an'  then  thar's  a 
hole  into  the  melody  like  it's  lost  a  tooth. 

"  '  This  yere's  good  enough  for  a  dog ! '  says 
Dave,  a-twistin*  away  on  the  handle.  '  Where's 
this  yere  Merino  ?  Whatever  is  the  matter  with 
that  shorthorn  ?  Why  don't  he  stand  his  hand  ?  ' 

"  But  Merino  ain't  noomerous  no  more ;  so  Dave 
allows  it's  a  shame  to  let  it  go  that  a-way,  an'  Mex 
icans  sufTerin'  for  melody.  With  that  he  straps  on 
the  tune-box,  an'  roams  'round  from  one  'doby  to 
another,  turnin'  it  loose. 

"'How  long  does  Merino  deal  his  tunes/  says 
Dave,  *  before  he  c'llects?  However,  I  makes  new 
rooles  for  the  game,  right  yere.  I  plays  these 
cadences  five  minutes;  an'  then  I  gets  action  on 
'em  for  five.  I  splits  even  with  these  Mexicans, 
which  is  shorely  fair.' 

"  So  Dave  twists  away  for  five  minutes,  an'  me 
a-timin'  of  him,  an'  then  leans  the  hewgag  up  ag'in 
a  'doby,  an'  starts  in  to  make  a  round-up.  He'll 
tackle  a  household,  sort  o'  terrorism'  at  'em  with 
his  gun ;  an'  tharupon  the  members  gets  that  gen 
erous  they  even  negotiates  loans  an'  thrusts  them 
proceeds  on  Dave.  That's  right ;  they're  that  am- 
bitious  to  donate. 

"  One  time  he  runs  up  on  a  band  of  tenderfeetf 
who's  skallyhootin'  'round ;  an'  they  comes  up  an* 
bends  their  y'ears  a-while.  They're  turnin'  to  g* 
jest  before  c'llectin'  time. 


The  Grinding  of  Dave  Tutt*  29 

"  '  Hold  on,'  says  Dave,  pickin'  up  his  Colt's 
offen  the  top  of  the  hewgag;  '  don't  get  cold  feet. 
Which  I've  seen  people  turn  that  kyard  in  church, 
but  you  bet  you  don't  jump  no  game  of  mine  that 
a-way.  You-all  line  up  ag'in  the  wall  thar  ontil  I 
tucks  the  blankets  in  on  this  yere  outbreak  in  F 
flat,  an'  I'll  be  with  you.' 

"  When  Dave  winds  up,  he  goes  along  the  line  of 
them  tremblin'  towerists,  an'  they  contreebutes 
'leven  dollars. 

" l  They  aims  to  go  stampedin'  off  with  them 
nocturnes,  an'  'peggios,  an*  arias,  an'  never  say 
nothin','  says  Dave ;  '  but  they  can't  work  no  twist 
like  that,  an'  me  a-ridin'  herd  ;  none  whatever.' 

"  Dave  carries  on  sim'lar  for  three  hours ;  an' 
what  on  splits,  an'  what  on  bets  he  wins,  he's  over 
a  hundred  dollars  ahead.  But  at  last  he's  plumb 
fatigued,  an'  allows  he'll  quit  an'  call  it  a  day.  So 
he  packs  the  tom-tom  down  to  Franklin's  office. 
Franklin  is  marshal  of  Tucson,  an'  Dave  turns  over 
the  layout  an'  the  money,  an'  tells  Franklin  to 
round  up  Merino  an'  enrich  him  tharwith. 

"  *  Where  is  this  yere  Dago  ?  '  says  Franklin. 

"  *  However  do  I  know  ?  '  says  Dave.  *  Last  I 
notes  of  him,  he's  canterin'  off  among  the  scenery 
like  antelopes.' 

"  It's  at  this  p'int  Merino  comes  to  view.  He 
starts  in  to  be  a  heap  dejected  about  that  bullet  ; 
but  when  he  gets  Dave's  donation  that  a-way,  his 
hopes  revives.  He  begins  to  regyard  it  as  a  heap 
good  scheme. 


30  Wolfville  Days* 

"'But  you'll  have  to  cirkle  up  to  the  alcalde, 
Tutt,'  says  Franklin.  '  I  ain't  shore  none  you  ain't 
been  breakin'  some  law.* 

"  Dave  grumbles,  an'  allows  Tucson  is  gettin'  a 
heap  too  staid  for  him. 

" '  It's  gettin*  so,*  says  Dave,  '  a  free  American 
citizen  don't  obtain  no  encouragements.  Yere  I 
puts  in  half  a  day,  amassin'  wealth  for  a  foreign 
gent  who  is  settin'  in  bad  luck ;  an*  elevatin'  Mexicans, 
who  shorely  needs  it,  an'  for  a  finish  I'm  laid  for  by 
the  marshal  like  a  felon.' 

"  Well,  we-all  goes  surgin'  over  to  the  alcalde's. 
Franklin,  Dave  an*  the  alcalde  does  a  heap  of 
pokin'  about  to  see  whatever  crimes,  if  any,  Dave's 
done.  Which  they  gets  by  the  capture  of  the 
hewgag,  an'shootin*  that  bullet  into  its  bowels  don't 
bother  'em  a  bit.  Even  Dave's  standin*  up  them 
towerists,  an*  the  rapine  that  ensoos  don't  worry 
'em  none ;  but  the  question  of  the  music  itse'f  sets 
the  alcalde  to  buckin*. 

" '  I'm  shorely  depressed  to  say  it,  Dave,'  says 
the  alcalde,  who  is  a  sport  named  Steele,  *  but 
you've  been  a-bustin*  of  ord'nances  about  playin* 
music  on  the  street  without  no  license.* 

"  *  Can't  we-all  beat  the  game  no  way  ?  *  says 
Dave. 

" '  Which  I  shorely  don't  see  how,*  says  the 
alcalde. 

"  '  Nor  me  neither,'  says  Franklin. 

"  '  Whatever  is  the  matter  with  counter-brandin' 
them  tunes  over  to  Merino's  license?'  says  Dave. 


The  Grinding  of  Dave  Tutt.  31 

" 4  Can't  do  it  nohow/  says  the  alcalde. 

" l  Well,  is  this  yere  ord'nance  accordin'  to  Hoyle 
an'  the  Declaration  of  Independence?'  says  Dave. 
'  I  don't  stand  it  none  onless.' 

"  '  Shore  ! '  says  the  alcalde. 

" '  Ante  an*  pass  the  buck,  then,'  says  Dave. 
'  I'm  a  law-abidin'  citizen,  an'  all  I  wants  is  a  squar' 
deal  from  the  warm  deck.' 

"  So  they  fines  Dave  fifty  dollars  for  playin'  them 
harmonies  without  no  license.  Dave  asks  me  later 
not  to  mention  this  yere  outcome  in  Wolfville,  an1 
I  never  does.  But  yere  it's  different." 


CHAPTER  IH. 
The  Feud  of  Pickles. 

"THAR'S  a  big  crowd  in  Wolfville  that  June 
day.  "  The  Old  Cattleman  tilted  his  chair  back  and 
challenged  my  interest  with  his  eye.  "  The  corrals 
is  full  of  pack  mules  an'  bull  teams  an'  wagon- 
trains  ;  an'  white  men,  Mexicans,  half-breeds  an* 
Injuns  is  a-mixin'  an'  meanderin'  'round,  a-lyin'  an* 
a-laughin'  an'  a-drinkin'  of  Red  Light  whiskey  mighty 
profuse.  Four  or  five  mule  skinners  has  their  long 
limber  sixteen-foot  whips,  which  is  loaded  with  dust- 
shot  from  butt  to  tip,  an'  is  crackin'  of  'em  at  a  mark. 
I've  seen  one  of  these  yere  mule  experts  with  the 
most  easy,  delicate,  delib'rate  twist  of  the  wrist 
make  his  whip  squirm  in  the  air  like  a  hurt  snake; 
an*  then  he'll  straighten  it  out  with  the  crack 
of  twenty  rifles,  an'  the  buckskin  popper  cuts  a 
hole  in  a  loose  buffalo  robe  he's  hung  up  ;  an'  all 
without  investin'  two  ounces  of  actooal  strength. 
Several  of  us  Wolfville  gents  is  on  the  sidewalk  in 
front  of  the  O.  K.  Restauraw,  applaudin'  of  the 
good  shots,  when  Dave  Tutt  speaks  up  to  Jack 
Moore,  next  to  me,  an'  says : 

"  '  Jack,  you  minds  that  old  Navajo  you  downs 
over  on  the  San  Simon  last  Fall  ? ' 

"'  I  minds  him    mighty  cl'ar,'    says  Jack.     *  He's 


The  Feud  of  Pickles*  33 

stealin*  my  Alizan  boss  at  the  time,  an'  I  can  prove 
it  by  his  skelp  on  my  bridle  now.' 

"  '  Well,'  says  Dave,  p'intin'  to  a  ornery,  saddle- 
colored  half-breed  who's  makin'  himse'f  some 
frequent,  'that  Injun  they  calls  "  Pickles "  is  his 
nephy,  an'  you  wants  to  look  out  a  whole  lot.  I  hears 
him  allow  that  the  killin'  of  his  relatif  is  mighty 
rank,  an'  that  he  don't  like  it  nohow/ 

"'  That's  all  right,'  says  Jack;  'Pickles  an*  me 
has  been  keepin'  cases  on  each  other  an  hour;  an' 
I'll  post  you-all  private,  if  he  goes  to  play  hoss  a 
little  bit,  him  an'  his  oncle  will  be  able  to  talk 
things  over  before  night.' 

"  Which  it's  mighty  soon  when  Pickles  comes 
along  where  we  be. 

" '  Hello,  Jack,'  he  says,  an'  his  manner  is 
insultin' ;  '  been  makin'  it  smoky  down  on  the  old 
San  Simon  lately  ?  ' 

" '  No ;  not  since  last  fall,'  says  Jack,  plenty 
light  an*  free  ;  '  an'  now  I  thinks  of  it,  I  b'lieves  I 
sees  that  Navajo  hoss-thief  of  an  oncle  of  yours 
when  I'm  down  thar  last.  I  ain't  run  up  on  him 
none  lately,  though.  Where  do  you-all  reckon  he's 
done  'loped  to  ?  ' 

"  '  Can't  say,  myse'f,'  says  Pickles,  with  a  kind  o' 
wicked  cheerfulness  ;  '  our  fam'ly  has  a  round-up  of 
itse'f  over  on  B'ar  Creek  last  spring,  an'  I  don't 
count  his  nose  among  'em  none.  Mebby  he  has  an 
engagement,  an'  can't  get  thar.  Mebby  he's  out 
squanderin'  'round  in  the  high  grass  some'ers. 
Great  man  to  go  'round  permiscus,  that  Injun  is,' 


34  Wolfville  Days* 

" '  You  see,'  says  Jack,  '  I  don't  know  but  he 
might  be  dead.  Which  the  time  I  speaks  of,  I'm 
settin'  in  camp  one  day.  Something  attracts  me, 
an'  I  happens  to  lookup,  an'  that's  my  hoss,  Alizan, 
with  a  perfect  stranger  on  him,  pitchin'  an'  buckin', 
an'  it  looks  like  he's  goin'  to  cripple  that  stranger 
shore.  Pickles,  you  knows  me !  I'd  lose  two 
hosses  rather  than  have  a  gent  I  don't  know  none 
get  hurt.  So  I  grabs  my  Winchester  an'  allows  to 
kill  Alizan.  But  it's  a  new  gun  ;  an'  you  know  what 
new  sights  is — coarse  as  sandburrs  ;  you  could  drag 
a  dog  through  'em — an'  I  holds  too  high.  I  fetches 
the  stranger,  "  bang  !  "  right  back  of  his  left  y'ear, 
an*  the  bullet  comes  outen  his  right  y'ear.  You 
can  bet  the  limit,  I  never  am  so  displeased  with  my 
shootin'.  The  idee  of  me  holdin'  four  foot  too  high 
in  a  hundred  yards !  I  never  is  that  embarrassed  ! 
I'm  so  plumb  disgusted  an'  ashamed,  I  don't  go 
near  that  equestrian  stranger  till  after  I  finishes  my 
grub.  Alizan,  he  comes  up  all  shiverin'  an'  sweatin* 
an*  stands  thar;  an'  mebby  in  a  hour  or  so  I  strolls 
out  to  the  deceased.  It  shorely  wearies  me  a  whole 
lot  when  I  sees  him  ;  he's  nothin'  but  a  common  Dig 
ger  buck.  You  can  drink  on  it  if  I  ain't  relieved. 
Bein'  a  no-account  Injun,  of  course,  I  don't  paw 
him  over  much  for  brands ;  but  do  you  know,  Pick 
les,  from  the  casooal  glance  I  gives,  it  strikes  me  at 
the  time  it's  mighty  likely  to  be  your  oncle.  This 
old  bronco  fancier's  skelp  is  over  on  my  bridle,  if 
you  thinks  you'd  know  it.' 

"  *  No/   says   Pickles,    mighty   onconcerned,   'it 


The  Feud  of  Pickles*  35 

\ 

can't  be  my  oncle  nohow.  If  he's  one  of  my  fam'ly, 
it  would  be  your  ha'r  on  his  bridle.  It  must  be 
some  old  shorthorn  of  a  Mohaveyou  downs.  Let's 
all  take  a  drink  on  it.' 

"  So  we-all  goes  weavin'  over  to  the  Red  Light, 
Jack  an'  Pickles  surveyin'  each  other  close  an' 
interested,  that  a-way,  an'  the  rest  of  us  on  the 
quee  vee,  to  go  swarmin'  out  of  range  if  they  takes 
to  shootin'. 

"  '  It's  shore  sad  to  part  with  friends,'  says  Pickles, 
as  he  secretes  his  nose-paint,  *  but  jest  the  same  I 
must  saddle  an'  stampede  out  of  yere.  I  wants  to 
see  that  old  villyun,  Tom  Cooke,  an'  I  don't  reckon 
none  I'll  find  him  any  this  side  of  Prescott,  neither. 
Be  you  thinkin'  of  leavin'  camp  yourse'f,  Jack  ?  ' 

"  '  I  don't  put  it  up  I'll  leave  fora  longtime,'  says 
Jack.  *  Mebby  not  for  a  month — mebby  it's  even 
years  before  I  go  wanderin'  off — so  don't  go  to 
makin'  no  friendly,  quiet  waits  for  me  nowhere 
along  the  route,  Pickles,  'cause  you'd  most  likely 
run  out  of  water  or  chuck  or  something  before  ever 
I  trails  up.' 

"  It  ain't  long  when  Pickles  saddles  up  an*  comes 
chargin'  'round  on  his  little  buckskin  hoss.  Pickles 
takes  to  cuttin'  all  manner  of  tricks,  reachin'  for 
things  on  the  ground,  snatchin'  off  Mexicans'  hats, 
an'  jumpin'  his  pony  over  wagon  tongues  an'  camp 
fixin's.  All  the  time  he's  whoopin*  an'  yellin'  an' 
carryin'  on,  an  havin'  a  high  time  all  by  himse'f. 
Which  you  can  see  he's  gettin'  up  his  blood  an' 
nerve,  reg'lar  Injun  fashion. 


36  Wolfvillc  Days* 

"  Next  he  takes  down  his  rope  an'  goes  to  whirlin* 
that.  Two  or  three  times  he  comes  flashin'  by 
where  we  be,  an'  I  looks  to  see  him  make  a  try  at 
Jack.  But  he's  too  far  back,  or  thar's  too  many 
'round  Jack,  or  Pickles  can't  get  the  distance,  or 
something;  for  he  don't  throw  it  none,  but  jest 
keeps  yellin'  an'  ridin*  louder  an'  faster.  Pickles 
shorely  puts  up  a  heap  of  riot  that  a-way  !  It's  now 
that  Enright  calls  to  Pickles. 

"'Look  yere,  Pickles,'  he  says,  *  I've  passed  the 
word  to  the  five  best  guns  in  camp  to  curl  you  up 
if  you  pitch  that  rope  once.  Bein*  as  the  news 
concerns  you,  personal,  I  allows  it's  nothin'  more'n 
friendly  to  tell  you.  Then  ag'in,  I  don't  like  to 
lose  the  Red  Light  sech  a  customer  like  you  till  it's 
a  plumb  case  of  crowd.' 

"  When  Enright  vouchsafes  this  warnin',  Pickles 
swings  down  an'  leaves  his  pony  standin',  an*  comes 
over. 

"  '  Do  you  know,  Jack,'  he  says,  '  I  don't  like  the 
onrespectful  tones  wherein  you  talks  of  Injuns.  I'm 
Injun,  part,  myse'f,  an'  I  don't  like  it.' 

"'No?'  says  Jack;  'I  s'pose  that's  a  fact,  too. 
An'  yet,  Pickles,  not  intendin*  nothin'  personal,  for 
I  wouldn't  be  personal  with  a  prairie  dog,  I'm  not 
only  onrespectful  of  Injuns,  an'  thinks  the  gov'ment 
ought  to  pay  a  bounty  for  their  skelps,  but  I  states 
beliefs  that  a  hoss-stealin',  skulkin'  mongrel  of  a 
half-breed  is  lower  yet  ;  I  holdin'  he  ain't  even 
people — ain't  nothin',  in  fact.  But  to  change  the 
subjeck,  as  well  as  open  an  avenoo  for  another 


The  Feud  of  Pickles.  37 

round  of  drinks,  I'll  gamble,  Pickles,  that  you-all 
stole  that  hoss  down  thar,  an'  that  the  "  ;K  "  brand 
on  his  shoulder  ain't  no  brand  at  all,  but  picked  on 
with  the  p'int  of  a  knife.' 

"  When  Jack  puts  it  all  over  Pickles  that  a-way, 
we  looks  for  shootin'  shore.  But  Pickles  can't 
steady  himse'f  on  the  call.  He's  like  ponies  I've  met. 
He'll  ride  right  at  a  thing  as  though  he's  goin' 
plumb  through  or  over,  an'  at  the  last  second  he 
quits  an'  flinches  an'  weakens.  Son,  it  ain't  Pickles' 
fault.  Thar  ain't  no  breed  of  gent  but  the  pure 
white  who  can  play  a  desp'rate  deal  down  through, 
an'  call  the  turn  for  life  or  death  at  the  close;  an' 
Pickles,  that  a-way,  is  only  half  white.  So  he  laughs 
sort  o*  ugly  at  Jack's  bluff,  an'  allows  he  orders 
drinks  without  no  wagers. 

"  'An'  then,  Jack,'  he  says,  '  I  wants  you  to  come 
feed  with  me.  I'll  have  Missis  Rucker  burn  us  up 
something  right.' 

"Til  go  you,'  says  Jack,  'if  it  ain't  nothin'  but 
salt  hoss/ 

"'I'll  fix  you-all  folks  up  a  feed,'  says  Missis 
Rucker,  a  heap  grim,  *  but  you  don't  do  no  ban- 
quetin'  in  no  dinin*  room  of  mine.  I'll  spread 
your  grub  in  the  camp-house,  t'other  side  the  corral, 
an'  you-all  can  then  be  as  sociable  an'  smoky  as  you 
please.  Which  you'll  be  alone  over  thar,  an'  can 
conduct  thereepast  in  any  fashion  to  suit  yourse'fs. 
But  you  don't  get  into  the  dinin'  room  reg'lar,  an' 
go  to  weedin'  out  my  boarders  accidental,  with  them 
feuds  of  yours.' 


38  Wolfville  Days. 

"  After  a  little,  their  grub's  got  ready  in  the  camp 
house.  It's  a  jo-darter  of  a  feed,  with  cake,  pie, 
airtights,  an'  the  full  game,  an'  Jack  an'  Pickles 
walks  over  side  an'  side.  They  goes  in  alone  an' 
shets  the  door.  In  about  five  minutes,  thar's  some 
emphatic  remarks  by  two  six-shooters,  an*  we-all  goes 
chargin'  to  find  out.  We  discovers  Jack  eatin'  away 
all  right  ;  Pickles  is  the  other  side,  with  his  head 
in  his  tin  plate,  his  intellects  runnin*  out  over  his 
eye.  Jack's  shore  subdooed  that  savage  for  all  time. 

" '  It  don't  look  like  Pickles  is  hungry  none,'  says 
Jack. 

"  They  both  pulls  their  weepons  as  they  sets 
down,  an'  puts  'em  in  their  laps ;  but  bein'  bred 
across,  that  a-way,  Pickles  can't  stand  the  strain. 
He  gets  nervous  an'  grabs  for  his  gun ;  the  muzzle 
catches  onder  the  table-top,  an*  thar's  his  bullet  all 
safe  in  the  wood.  Jack,  bein'  clean  strain  American, 
has  better  luck,  an'  Pickles  is  got.  Shore,  it's  right 
an'  on  the  squar' ! 

"  '  You  sees,'  says  Dan  Boggs,  '  this  killin's  bound 
to  be  right  from  the  jump.  It  comes  off  by  Pickles' 
earnest  desire;  Jack  couldn't  refoose.  He  would 
have  lost  both  skelp  an*  standin'  if  he  had.  Which, 
however,  if  this  yere  'limination  of  Pickles  has  got 
to  have  a  name,  my  idee  is  to  call  her  a  case  of 
self-deestruction  on  Pickles'  part,  an'  let  it  go  at 
that.'  " 


CHAPTER  IV* 
Johnny  Florer's  Axle  Grease* 

IT  was  the  afternoon — cool  and  beautiful.  I  had 
been  nursing  my  indolence  with  a  cigar  and  one  of 
the  large  arm-chairs  which  the  veranda  of  the  great 
hotel  afforded.  Now  and  then  I  considered  within 
myself  as  to  the  whereabouts  of  my  Old  Cattleman, 
and  was  in  a  half  humor  to  hunt  him  up.  Just  as 
my  thoughts  were  hardening  into  decision  in  that 
behalf,  a  high,  wavering  note,  evidently  meant  for 
song,  came  floating  around  the  corner  of  the  house, 
from  the  veranda  on  the  end.  The  singer  was  out 
of  range  of  eye,  but  I  knew  him  for  my  aged  friend. 
Thus  he  gave  forth  : 

"  Dogville,  Dogville  ! 
A  tavern  an'  a  still, 
That's  all  thar  is  in  all  Dog-ville." 

"  How  do  you  feel  to-day?"  I  asked  as  I  took  a 
chair  near  the  venerable  musician.  "  Happy  and 
healthy,  I  trust  ?  " 

"Never  feels  better  in  my  life,"  responded  the 
Old  Cattleman.  "If  I  was  to  feel  any  better,  I'd 
shorely  go  an'  see  a  doctor." 

"  You  are  a  singer,  I  observe." 


40  "Wolfvillc  Days* 

"  I'm  melodious  nacheral,  but  I'm  gettin'  so  I  sort 
o*  stumbles  in  my  notes.  Shoutin'  an*  singin* 
'round  a  passel  of  cattle  to  keep  'em  from  stam- 
pedin'  on  bad  nights  has  sp'iled  my  voice,  that 
a-way.  Thar's  nothin'  so  weakenin',  vocal,  as  them 
efforts  in  the  open  air  an'  in  the  midst  of  the  storms 
an*  the  elements.  What  for  a  song  is  that  I'm 
renderin'  ?  Son,  I  learns  that  ballad  long  ago,  back 
when  I'm  a  boy  in  old  Tennessee.  It's  writ,  word 
and  music,  by  little  Mollie  Hines,  who  lives  with 
her  pap,  old  Homer  Hines,  over  on  the  'Possum 
Trot.  Mollie  Hines  is  shore  a  poet,  an'  has  a 
mighty  sight  of  fame,  local.  She's  what  you-all 
might  call  a  jo-darter  of  a  poet,  Mollie  is ;  an'  let 
anythin'  touchin'  or  romantic  happen  anywhere 
along  the  'Possum  Trot,  so  as  to  give  her  a  subjeck, 
an'  Mollie  would  be  down  on  it,  instanter,  like  a 
fallin'  star.  She  shorely  is  a  verse  maker,  an*  is 
known  in  the  Cumberland  country  as  *  The  Nightin 
gale  of  Big  Bone  Lick.'  I  remembers  when  a  Shy- 
lock  over  to  the  Dudleytown  bank  forecloses  a 
mortgage  on  old  Homer  Hines,  an'  offers  his  settle 
ments  at  public  vandue  that  a-way,  how  Mollie 
prances  out  an'  pours  a  poem  into  the  miscreant. 
Thar's  a  hundred  an'  'leven  verses  into  it,  an'  each 
one  like  a  bullet  outen  a  Winchester.  It  goes  like 
this : 

•'  Thar's  a  word  to  be  uttered  to  the  rich  man  in  his  pride. 
(Which  a  gent  is  frequent  richest  when  it's  jest  before  he  died  !) 
Thar's  a  word  to  be  uttered  to  the  hawg  a-eatin'  truck. 
(Which  a  hawg  is  frequent  fattest  when  it's  jest  before  he's 
stuck ! ) 


Johnny  Florer's  Axle  Grease*  41 

"  Mighty  sperited  epick,  that !  You  recalls  that 
English  preacher  sharp  that  comes  squanderin' 
'round  the  tavern  yere  for  his  health  about  a  month 
ago  ?  Shore !  I  knows  you  couldn't  have  over 
looked  no  bet  like  that  divine.  Well,  that  night  in 
them  parlors,  when  he  reads  some  rhymes  in  a  book, 
— whatever  is  that  piece  he  reads  ?  Locksley  Hall ; 
right  you  be,  son !  As  I  was  sayin',  when  he's 
through  renderin'  said  Locksley  Hall,  he  comes 
buttin'  into  a  talk  with  me  where  I'm  camped  in  a 
corner  all  cosy  as  a  toad  onder  a  cabbage  leaf,  ree- 
coverin'  myse'f  with  licker  from  them  recitals  of 
his,  an'  he  says  to  me,  this  parson  party  does : 

"  *  Which  it's  shorely  a  set-back  America  has  no 
poets,'  says  he. 

"  *  It's  evident/  I  says,  '  that  you  never  hears  of 
Mollie  Hines.' 

"  '  No,  never  once,'  he  replies;  '  is  this  yere  Miss 
Hines  a  poet  ?' 

"  '  Is  Mollie  Hines  a  poet!'  I  repeats,  for  my 
scorn  at  the  mere  idee  kind  o'  stiffens  its  knees  an' 
takes  to  buckin'  some.  *  Mollie  Hines  could  make 
that  Locksley  Hall  gent  you  was  readin'  from,  or 
even  the  party  who  writes  Watt's  Hymns,  go  to 
the  diskyard.'  An*  then  I  repeats  some  forty  of 
them  stanzas,  whereof  that  one  I  jest  now  recites  is 
a  speciment. 

"What  does  this  pulpit  gent  say?  He  see  I  has 
him  cinched,  an'  he's  plumb  mute.  He  confines 
himse'f  to  turnin'  up  his  nose  in  disgust  like  Bill 
Storey  does  when  his  father-in-law  horsewhips  him." 


42  Wolfvillc  Days. 

Following  this,  the  Old  Cattleman  and  I  wrapped 
ourselves  in  thoughtful  smoke,  for  the  space  of  five 
minutes,  as  ones  who  pondered  the  genius  of  "  The 
Nightingale  of  Big  Bone  Lick" — Mollie  Hines  on 
the  banks  of  the  'Possom  Trot.  At  last  my  friend 
broke  forth  with  a  question. 

"  Whoever  is  them  far-off  folks  you-all  was  tellin* 
me  is  related  to  Injuns?" 

"  The  Japanese,"  I  replied.  "  Undoubtedly  the 
Indians  and  the  Japanese  are  of  the  same  stock." 

"  Which  I'm  foaled  like  a  mule,"  said  the  old 
gentleman,  "  a  complete  prey  to  inborn  notions 
ag'in  Injuns.  I  wouldn't  have  one  pesterin'  'round 
me  more'n  I'd  eat  offen  the  same  plate  with  a  snake. 
I  shore  has  aversions  to  'em  a  whole  lot.  Of  course, 
I  never  sees  them  Japs,  but  I  saveys  Injuns  from 
feathers  to  moccasins,  an'  comparin'  Japs  to  Injuns, 
I  feels  about  'em  like  old  Bill  Rawlins  says  about 
his  brother  Jim's  wife." 

"  And  how  was  that?  "  I  asked. 

The  afternoon  was  lazy  and  good,  and  I  in  a 
mood  to  listen  to  my  rambling  grey  comrade  talk 
of  anybody  or  anything. 

"  It's  this  a-way,"  he  began.  "  This  yere  Bill  an* 
Jim  Rawlins  is  brothers  an'  abides  in  Roanoke, 
Virginity.  They  splits  up  in  their  yooth,  an'  Jim 
goes  p'intin'  out  for  the  West.  Which  he  shore 
gets  thar,  an'  nothin'  is  heard  of  him  for  forty  years. 

"Bill  Rawlins,  back  in  Roanoke,  waxes  a  heap 
rich,  an'  at  last  cleans  up  his  game  an'  resolves  he 
takes  a  rest.  Also  he  concloods  to  travel ;  an'  as 


Johnny  Florer's  Axle  Grease,  43 

long  as  he's  goin'  to  travel,  he  allows  he'll  sort  o'  go 
projectin'  'round  an'  see  if  he  can't  locate  Jim. 

"  He  gets  a  old  an'  musty  tip  about  Jim,  this  Bill 
Rawlins  does,  an'  it  works  out  all  right.  Bill  cuts 
Jim's  trail  'way  out  yonder  on  the  Slope  at  a 
meetropolis  called  Los  Angeles.  But  this  yere  Jim 
ain't  thar  none.  The  folks  tells  Bill  they  reckons 
Jim  is  over  to  Virginny  City. 

"  It's  a  month  later,  an'  Bill  is  romancin'  along  on 
one  of  them  Nevada  mountain-meadow  trails,  when 
he  happens  upon  a  low,  squatty  dugout,  the  same 
bein'  a  camp  rather  than  a  house,  an*  belongs  with 
a  hay  ranche.  In  the  door  is  standin'  a  most  ornery 
seemin*  gent,  with  long,  tangled  ha'r  an'  beard,  an* 
his  clothes  looks  like  he's  shorely  witnessed  times. 
The  hands  of  this  ha'ry  gent  is  in  his  pockets,  an' 
he  exhibits  a  mighty  soopercilious  air.  Bill  pulls 
up  his  cayouse  for  a  powwow. 

" '  How  far  is  it  to  a  place  where  I  can  camp 
down  for  the  night  ?  '  asks  Bill. 

"  '  It's  about  twenty  miles  to  the  next  wickeyup/ 
says  the  soopercilious  gent. 

"  '  Which  I  can't  make  it  none  to-night,  then/ 
says  Bill. 

" '  Not  on  that  hoss,'  says  the  soopercilious  gent, 
for  Bill's  pony  that  a-way  is  plenty  played. 

"  '  Mebby,  then,'  says  Bill,  '  I'd  better  bunk  in 
yere.' 

"  '  You  can  gamble  you-all  don't  sleep  yere,'  says 
the  soopercilious  gent ;  '  none  whatever! ' 

"  '  An'  why  not  ?  '  asks  Bill. 


44  Woifville  Days. 

"  '  Because  I  won't  let  you,*  says  the  soopercilious 
gent,  a-bitin'  off  a  piece  of  tobacco.  '  This  is  my 
camp,  an'  force'ble  invasions  by  casooal  hold-ups 
like  you,  don't  preevail  with  me  a  little  bit.  I 
resents  the  introosion  on  my  privacy.' 

"  '  But  I'll  have  to  sleep  on  these  yere  plains,' 
says  Bill  a  heap  plaintif. 

" '  Thar's  better  sports  than  you-all  slept  on  them 
plains,'  says  the  soopercilious  gent. 

"  Meanwhile,  thar's  a  move  or  two,  speshully  the 
way  he  bats  his  eyes,  about  this  soopercilious  gent 
that  sets  Bill  to  rummagin'  'round  in  his  mem'ry. 
At  last  he  asks : 

"  '  Is  your  name  Rawlins  ?  ' 

"  '  Yes,  sir,  my  name's  Rawlins,'  says  the  sooper 
cilious  gent. 

"4  Jim  Rawlins  of  Roanoke?' 

"'Jim  Rawlins  of  Roanoke;'  an'  the  soopercil 
ious  gent  reaches  inside  the  door  of  the  dugout, 
searches  forth  a  rifle  an'  pumps  a  cartridge  into  the 
bar'l. 

" '  Stan'  your  hand,  Jim  ! '  says  Bill,  at  the  same 
time  slidin'  to  the  ground  with  the  hoss  between 
him  an'  his  relatif;  'don't  get  impetyoous.  I'm 
your  brother  Bill.' 

"  '  What ! '  says  the  soopercilious  gent,  abandonin* 
them  hostile  measures,  an'  joy  settlin'  over  his  face. 
'  What ! '  he  says  ;  *  you  my  brother  Bill  ?  Well, 
don't  that  beat  grizzly  b'ars  amazin' !  Come  in, 
Bill,  an'  rest  your  hat.  Which  it's  simply  the  ten 
derness  of  hell  I  don't  miss  you/ 


Johnny  Florets  Axle  Grease*  45 

"Whereupon  Bill  an'  Jim  tracks  along  inside  an* 
goes  to  canvassin'  up  an'  down  as  to  what  ensooes 
doorin'  them  forty  years  they've  been  parted.  Jim 
wants  to  know  all  about  Roanoke  an'  how  things 
stacks  up  in  old  Virginny,  an*  he's  chuckin*  in  his 
questions  plenty  rapid. 

"  While  Bill's  replying  his  eye  is  caught  by  a 
frightful-lookin'  female  who  goes  slyin'  in  an'  out, 
a-organizin'  of  some  grub.  She's  the  color  of  a 
saddle,  an'  Bill  can't  make  out  whether  she's  a 
white,  a  Mexican,  a  Digger  Injun  or  a  nigger.  An* 
she's  that  hideous,  this  female  is,  she  comes  mighty 
near  givin'  Bill  heart  failure.  Son,  you-all  can't  have 
no  idee  how  tumble  this  person  looks.  She's  so 
ugly  the  flies  won't  light  on  her.  Yes,  sir !  ugly 
enough  to  bring  sickness  into  a  fam'ly.  Bill  can 
feel  all  sorts  o'  horrors  stampedin'  about  in  his  frame 
as  he  gazes  on  her.  Her  eyes  looks  like  two  bullet 
holes  in  a  board,  an'  the  rest  of  her  feachers  is 
tetotaciously  indeescrib'ble.  Bill's  intellects  at  the 
awful  sight  of  this  yere  person  almost  loses  their 
formation,  as  army  gents  would  say.  At  last  Bill 
gets  in  a  question  on  his  rapid-fire  relatif,  who's 
shootin'  him  up  with  queries  touchin'  Roanoke  to 
beat  a  royal  flush. 

"  '  Jim,'  says  Bill,  sort  o*  scared  like,  '  whoever  is 
this  yere  lady  who's  roamin'  the  scene?' 

" '  Well,  thar  now!'  says  Jim,  like  he's  plumb 
disgusted,  *  I  hope  my  gun  may  hang  fire,  if  I  don't 
forget  to  introdooce  you  !  Bill,  that's  my  wife.' 

"Then   Jim   goes   surgin'   off   all  spraddled  out 


46  Wolfvillc  Days* 

about  the  noomerous  an'  manifest  excellencies  of 
this  female,  an'  holds  forth  alarmin'  of  an'  concernin' 
her  virchoos  an'  loveliness  of  face  an*  form,  an'  all 
to  seen  a  scand'lous  degree,  Bill  has  to  step  out 
doors  to  blush. 

"'  An',  Bill,'  goes  on  Jim,  an'  he's  plumb  raptu 
rous,  that  a-way,  '  may  I  never  hold  three  of  a  kind 
ag'in,  if  she  ain't  got  a  sister  who's  as  much  like 
her  as  two  ^oker  chips.  I'm  co'tin'  both  of  'em 
mighty  near  four  years  before  ever  I  can  make  up 
my  mind  whichever  of  'em  I  needs.  They're  both 
so  absolootely  sim'lar  for  beauty,  an'  both  that 
aloorin'  to  the  heart,  I  simply  can't  tell  how  to  set 
my  stack  down.  At  last,  after  four  years,  I  ups  an' 
cuts  the  kyards  for  it,  an'  wins  out  this  one.' 

"'  Well,  Jim,'  says  Bill,  who's  been  settin'  thar 
shudderin'  through  them  rhapsodies,  an'  now  an' 
then  gettin'  a  glimpse  of  this  yere  female  with  the 
tail  of  his  eye:  '  Well,  Jim,  far  be  it  from  me,  an* 
me  your  brother,  to  go  avouchin*  views  to  make 
you  feel  doobious  of  your  choice.  But  candor's 
got  the  drop  on  me  an'  compels  me  to  speak  my 
thoughts.  I  never  sees  this  sister  of  your  wife,  Jim, 
but  jest  the  same,  I'd  a  heap  sight  rather  have  her.' 

"An*  as  I  observes  previous,"  concluded  the  old 
gentleman,  "  I  feels  about  Japs  an'  Injuns  like  Bill 
does  about  Jim's  wife  that  time.  I  never  sees  no 
Japs,  but  I'd  a  mighty  sight  rather  have  'em." 

There  was  another  pause  after  this,  and  cigars 
were  produced.  For  a  time  the  smoke  curled  in 
silence.  Then  my  friend  again  took  up  discussion. 


Johnny  Florets  Axle  Grease*  47 

"Thar  comes  few  Injuns  investigating  into  Wolf, 
ville.  Doorin'  them  emutes  of  Cochise,  an'  Geron- 
imo,  an'  Nana,  the  Apaches  goes  No'th  an'  South 
clost  in  by  that  camp  of  ours,  but  you  bet  !  they're 
never  that  locoed  as  to  rope  once  at  WolfvilleJ 
We-all  would  shorely  have  admired  to  entertain 
them  hostiles ;  but  as  I  su'gests,  they're  a  heap  too 
enlightened  to  give  us  a  chance. 

'*  Savages  never  finds  much  encouragement  to 
come  ha'ntin'  about  Wolfville.  About  the  first 
visitin'  Injun  meets  with  a  contreetemps ;  though 
this  is  inadvertent  a  heap  an'  not  designed.  This 
buck,  a  Navajo,  I  takes  it,  from  his  feathers,  has 
been  pirootin'  about  for  a  day  or  two.  At  last  I 
reckons  he  allows  he'll  eelope  off  into  the  foothills 
ag'in.  As  carryin'  out  them  roode  plans  which  he 
forms,  he  starts  to  scramble  onto  the  Tucson  stage 
jest  as  Old  Monte's  c'llectin'  up  his  reins.  But  it 
don't  go;  Injuns  is  barred.  The  gyard,  who's 
perched  up  in  front  next  to  Old  Monte,  pokes  this 
yere  aborigine  in  the  middle  of  his  face  with  the 
muzzle  of  his  rifle ;  an'  as  the  Injun  goes  tumblin', 
the  stage  starts,  an'  both  wheels  passes  over  him 
the  longest  way.  That  Injun  gives  a  groan  like 
twenty  sinners,  an*  his  lamp  is  out. 

"  Old  Monte  sets  the  brake  an'  climbs  down  an* 
sizes  up  the  remainder.  Then  he  gets  back  on  the 
box,  picks  up  his  six  hosses  an'  is  gettin'  out. 

"'Yere,  you!'  says  French,  who's  the  Wells- 
Fargo  agent,  a-callin'  after  Old  Monte,  'come  back 
an'  either  plant  your  game  or  pack  it  with  you- 


48  Wolfville  Days* 

I'm  too  busy  a  gent  to  let  you  or  any  other  blinded 
drunkard  go  leavin'  a  fooneral  at  my  door.  Thar's 
enough  to  do  here  as  it  is,  an'  I  don't  want  no  dead 
Injuns  on  my  hands.' 

" '  Don't  put  him  up  thar  an'  go  sp'ilin*  them 
mail-bags/  howls  Old  Monte,  as  French  an*  a  hoss- 
hustler  from  inside  the  corral  lays  hold  of  the 
Navajo  to  throw  him  on  with  the  baggage. 

"'Then  come  down  yere  an' ride  herd  on  the 
play  yourse'f,  you  murderin'  sot  I  *  says  French. 

*'  An'  with  that,  he  shore  cuts  loose  an'  cusses 
Old  Monte  frightful ;  cusses  till  a  cottonwood  tree 
in  front  of  the  station  sheds  all  its  leaves,  an*  he 
deadens  the  grass  for  a  hundred  yards  about. 

"  '  Promotin'  a  sepulcher  in  this  rock-ribbed  land 
scape,'  says  French,  as  Jack  Moore  comes  up,  kind 
o'  apol'gisin*  for  his  profane  voylence  at  Old 
Monte  ;  '  framin'  up  a  tomb,  I  say,  in  this  yere 
rock-ribbed  landscape  ain't  no  child's  play,  an'  I'm 
not  allowin*  none  for  that  homicide  Monte  to  put 
no  sech  tasks  on  me.  He  knows  the  Wolfville 
roole.  Every  gent  skins  his  own  polecats  an'  plants 
his  own  prey.' 

"  '  That's  whatever  ! '  says  Jack  Moore,  '  an*  on- 
less  Old  Monte  is  thirstin'  for  trouble  in  elaborate 
forms,  he  acquiesces  tharin.' 

"With  that  Old  Monte  hitches  the  Navajo  to 
the  hind  axle  with  a  lariat  which  French  brings 
out,  an'  then  the  stage,  with  the  savage  coastin' 
along  behind,  goes  rackin'  off  to  the  No'th.  Later, 
Monte  an'  the  passengers  hangs  this  yere  remainder 


Johnny  Florer's  Axle  Grease*  49 

up  in  a  pine  tree,  at  an  Injun  crossin'  in  the  hills, 
as  a  warnin'.  Whether  it's  a  warnin'  or  no,  we 
never  learns ;  all  that's  shore  is  that  the  remainder 
an'  the  lariat  is  gone  next  day  ;  but  whatever  idees 
the  other  Injuns  entertains  of  the  play  is,  as  I  once 
hears  a  lecture  sharp  promulgate,  '  concealed  with 
the  customary  stoicism  of  the  American  savage.' 

"  Most  likely  them  antipathies  of  mine  ag'in 
Injuns  is  a  heap  enhanced  by  what  I  experiences 
back  on  the  old  Jones  an*  Plummer  trail,  when  they 
was  wont  to  stampede  our  herds  as  we  goes  drivin' 
through  the  Injun  Territory.  Any  little  old  dark 
night  one  of  them  savages  is  liable  to  come  skulkin' 
up  on  the  wind'ard  side  of  the  herd,  flap  a  blanket, 
cut  loose  a  yell,  an'  the  next  second  thar's  a  hun 
dred  an'  twenty  thousand  dollars'  worth  of  property 
skally-hootin*  off  into  space  on  frenzied  hoofs. 
Next  day,  them  same  ontootered  children  of  the 
woods  an'  fields  would  demand  four  bits  for  every 
head  they  he'ps  round  up  an'  return  to  the  bunch. 
It's  a  source  of  savage  revenoo,  troo  ;  but  plumb 
irritatin'.  Them  Injuns  corrals  sometimes  as  much 
as  a  hundred  dollars  by  sech  treacheries.  An'  then 
we-all  has  to  rest  over  one  day  to  win  it  back  at 
poker. 

"  Will  Injuns  gamble?  Shore!  an'  to  the  limit 
at  that !  Of  course,  bein',  as  you  saveys,  a  be 
nighted  people  that  a-way,  they're  some  easy,  hav- 
in'  no  more  jedgment  as  to  the  valyoo  of  a  hand 
than  Steve  Stevenson,  an'  Steve  would  take  a  pa'r 
of  nines  an*  bet  'em  higher  than  a  cat's  back.  We 


50  Wolfvillc  Days* 

allers  recovers  our  dinero,  but  thar's  time  an*  sleep 
we  lose  an*  don't  get  back. 

"Yes,  indeed,  son,  Injuns  common  is  as  ornery 
as  soapweed.  The  only  good  you-all  can  say  of 
'em  is,  they're  nacheral-born  longhorns,  is  oncom- 
plainin',  an*  saveys  the  West  like  my  black  boy 
saveys  licker.  One  time — this  yere  is  'way  back  in 
my  Texas  days — one  time  I'm  camped  for  long 
over  on  the  Upper  Hawgthief.  It's  rained  a  heap, 
an*  bein*  as  I'm  on  low  ground  anyhow,  it  gets  that 
soft  an'  swampy  where  I  be  it  would  bog  a  butter 
fly.  For  once  I'm  took  sick ;  has  a  fever,  that 
a-way.  An'  lose  flesh  !  shorely  you  should  have 
seen  me  !  I  falls  off  like  persimmons  after  a  frost, 
an'  gets  as  ga'nt  an'  thin  as  a  cow  in  April.  So  I 
allows  I'll  take  a  lay-off  for  a  couple  of  months  an* 
reecooperate  some. 

"  Cossettin'  an'  pettin*  of  my  health,  as  I  states, 
I  saddles  up  an'  goes  cavortin'  over  into  the  Osage 
nation  to  visit  an  old  compadre  of  mine  who's  a 
trader  thar  by  the  name  of  Johnny  Florer.  This 
yere  Florer  is  an  old-timer  with  the  Osages ;  been 
with  'em  it's  mighty  likely  twenty  year  at  that 
time,  an'  is  with  'em  yet  for  all  the  notice  I  ever 
receives. 

"  On  the  o'casion  of  this  ambassy  of  mine,  I  has 
a  chance  to  study  them  savages,  an'  get  a  line  on 
their  char'cters  a  whole  lot.  This  time  I'm  with 
Johnny,  what  you-all  might  call  Osage  upper  cir 
cles  is  a  heap  torn  by  the  ontoward  rivalries  of  a 
brace  of  eminent  bucks  who's  each  strugglin'  to 


Johnny  Florer's  Axle  Grease*  51 

lead  the  fashion  for  the  tribe  an*  raise  the  other 
out. 

"  Them  Osages,  while  blanket  Injuns,  is  plumb 
opulent.  Thar's  sixteen  hundred  of  'em,  an'  they 
has  to  themse'fs  1,500,000  acres  of  as  good  land  as 
ever  comes  slippin'  from  the  palm  of  the  Infinite. 
Also,  the  gov'ment  is  weak-minded  enough  to  con 
fer  on  every  one  of  'em,  each  buck  drawin'  the 
dinero  for  his  fam'ly,  a  hundred  an'  forty  big  iron 
dollars  anyooally.  Wherefore,  as  I  observes,  them 
Osages  is  plenty  strong,  financial. 

"  These  yere  two  high-rollin'  bucks  I  speaks  of, 
who's  strugglin'  for  the  social  soopremacy,  is  in  the 
midst  of  them  strifes  while  I'm  visitin'  Florer. 
It's  some  two  moons  prior  when  one  of  'em,  which 
we'll  call  him  the  '  Astor  Injun,'  takes  a  heavy  fall 
out  of  the  opp'sition  by  goin'  over  to  Cherryvale 
an'  buyin'  a  sooperannuated  two-seat  Rockaway 
buggy.  To  this  he  hooks  up  a  span  of  ponies, 
loads  in  his  squaws,  an'  p'rades  'round  from 
Pawhusky  to  Greyhoss — the  same  bein'  a  couple 
of  Osage  camps — an'  tharby  redooces  the  enemy — 
what  we'll  name  the  '  Vanderbilt  Injuns' — to 
desp'ration.  The  Astor  savage  shorely  has  the 
call  with  that  Rockaway. 

"  But  the  Vanderbilt  Osage  is  a  heap  hard  to 
down.  He  takes  one  look  at  the  Astor  Injun's 
Rockaway  with  all  its  blindin'  splendors,  an'  then 
goes  streakin'  it  for  Cherryvale,  like  a  drunkard 
to  a  barbecue.  An'  he  sees  the  Rockaway  an' 
goes  it  several  better.  What  do  you-all  reckon 


52  Wolfvillc  Days* 

now  that  savage  equips  himse'f  with?  He  wins 
out  a  hearse,  a  good  big  black  roomy  hearse,  with 
ploomes  onto  it  an*  glass  winders  in  the  sides. 

"As  soon  as  ever  this  Vanderbilt  Injun  stiffens 
his  hand  with  the  hearse,  he  comes  troopin*  back 
to  camp  with  it,  himse'f  on  the  box  drivin',  an* 
puttin'  on  enough  of  lordly  dog  to  make  a  pack  of 
hounds.  Which  he  shorely  squelches  the  Astors; 
they  jest  simply  lay  down  an'  wept  at  sech  grandeur. 
Their  Rockaway  ain't  one,  two,  three, — ain't  in 
the  money. 

"  An*  every  day  the  Vanderbilt  Injun  would 
load  his  squaws  an'  papooses  inside  the  hearse,  an* 
thar,  wropped  in  their  blankets  an'  squattin'  on  the 
floor  of  the  hearse  for  seats,  they  would  be  lookin' 
out  o'  the  winders  at  common  savages  who  ain't 
in  it  an'  don't  have  no  hearse.  Meanwhiles,  the 
buck  Vanderbilt  is  drivin'  the  outfit  all  over  an* 
'round  the  cantonments,  the  entire  bunch  as  sassy 
an'  as  flippant  as  a  coop  o'  catbirds.  It's  all  the 
Astors  can  do  to  keep  from  goin'  plumb  locoed. 
The  Vanderbilts  win. 

"  One  mornin',  when  Florer  an'  me  has  jest  run 
our  brands  onto  the  fourth  drink,  an  old  buck 
comes  trailin'  into  the  store.  His  blanket  is  pulled 
over  his  head,  an'  he's  pantin*  an*  givin*  it  out  he's 
powerful  ill. 

"  '  How  is  my  father?  '  says  Johnny  in  Osage. 

" '  Oh,  my  son/  says  the  Injun,  placin'  one  hand 
on  his  stomach,  an'  all  mighty  tender,  *  your  father 
is  plenty  sick.  Your  father  gets  up  this  mornin', 


Johnny  Florer's  Axle  Grease*  53 

an*  his  heart  is  very  bad.  You  must  give  him 
medicine  or  your  father  will  die.' 

"  Johnny  passes  the  invalid  a  cinnamon  stick  an' 
exhorts  him  to  chew  on  that,  which  he  does  prompt 
an*  satisfactory,  like  cattle  on  their  cud.  This 
cinnamon  keeps  him  steady  for  'most  five  minutes. 

"'Whatever  is  the  matter  with  this  savage?' 
I  asks  of  Johnny. 

"  '  Nothin*  partic'lar/  says  Johnny.  '  Last  night 
he  comes  pushin*  in  yere  an'  buys  a  bottle  of 
Worcestershire  sauce ;  an*  then  he  gets  gaudy  an* 
quaffs  it  all  up  on  a  theery  she's  a  new-fangled  fire 
water.  He  gets  away  with  the  entire  bottle.  It's 
now  he  realizes  them  errors,  an'  takes  to  groanin' 
an*  allowin*  it  gives  him  a  bad  heart.  Which  I 
should  shorely  admit  as  much  ! ' 

"  '  Your  father  is  worse/  says  the  Osage,  as  he 
comes  cuttin'  in  on  Johnny  ag'in.  'Must  have 
stronger  medicine.  That  medicine,'  holdin*  up 
some  of  the  cinnamon,  *  that  not  bad  enough.' 

"At  this,  Johnny  passes  his  'father'  over  a 
double  handful  of  black  pepper  before  it's  ground. 

"  '  Let  my  father  get  away  with  that/  says 
Johnny,  '  an'  he'll  feel  like  a  bird.  It  will  make  him 
gay  an'  full  of  p'isen,  like  a  rattlesnake  in  August/ 

"Out  to  the  r'ar  of  Johnny's  store  is  piled  up 
onder  a  shed  more'n  two  thousand  boxes  of  axle 
grease.  It  was  sent  into  the  nation  consigned  to 
Johnny  by  some  ill-advised  sports  in  New  York, 
who  figgers  that  because  the  Osages  as  a  tribe 
abounds  in  wagons,  thar  must  shorely  be  a 


54  Wolfville  Days. 

market  for  axle  grease.  That's  where  them  New 
York  persons  misses  the  ford  a  lot.  Them  savages 
has  wagons,  troo ;  but  they  no  more  thinks  of 
greasin'  them  axles  than  paintin'  the  runnin'  gear. 
They  never  goes  ag'inst  that  axle  grease  game  for 
so  much  as  a  single  box;  said  ointment  is  a  drug. 
When  he  don't  dispose  of  it  none,  Johnny  stores  it 
out  onder  a  shed  some  twenty  rods  away,  an* 
regyards  it  as  a  total  loss. 

"  4  Axle  grease,'  says  Johnny,  *  makes  a  p'int  in 
civilization  to  which  the  savage  has  not  yet 
clambered,  an*  them  optimists,  East,  who  sends  it 
on  yere,  should  have  never  made  no  sech  break/ 

"  Mebby  it's  because  this  axle  grease  grows 
sullen  an'  feels  neglected  that  a-way ;  mebby  it's 
the  heats  of  two  summers  an'  the  frosts  of  two 
winters  which  sp'iles  its  disp'sition  ;  shore  it  is  at  any 
rate  that  at  the  time  I'm  thar,  that  onguent  seems 
fretted  to  the  core,  an'  is  givin'  forth  a  protestin* 
fragrance  that  has  stood  off  a  coyote  an'  made  him 
quit  at  a  distance  of  two  hundred  yards.  You 
might  even  say  it  has  caused  Nacher  herse'f  to 
pause  an'  catch  her  breath. 

"  It's  when  the  ailin'  Osage,  whose  malady  is  too 
deep-seated  to  be  reached  by  cinnamon  or  pimento, 
comes  frontin'  up  for  a  third  prescription,  that  the 
axle  grease  idee  seizes  Johnny. 

"  *  Father/  says  Johnny,  '  come  with  me.  Your 
son  will  now  saw  off  some  big  medicine  on  you  ;  a 
medicine  meant  for  full-blown  gents  like  you  an'  me. 
Come,  father,  come  with  your  son,  an*  you  shall  be 


Johnny  Florer's  Axle  Grease.  55 

cured  in  half  the  time  it  takes  to  run  a  loop  on  a 
lariat.' 

"  Johnny  breaks  open  one  of  the  axle  grease 
boxes,  arms  the  savage  with  a  chip  for  a  spoon,  an* 
exhorts  him  to  cut  in  on  it  a  whole  lot. 

"  Son,  the  odors  of  them  wares  is  awful ;  Kansas 
butter  is  violets  to  it ;  but  it  never  flutters  that 
Osage.  He  takes  Johnny's  chip  an'  goes  to  work, 
spadin'  that  axle  grease  into  his  mouth,  like  he  ain't 
got  a  minute  to  live.  When  he's  got  away  with 
half  the  box,  he  tucks  the  balance  onder  his  blanket 
an'  retires  to  his  teepee  with  a  look  of  gratitoodeon 
his  face.  His  heart  has  ceased  to  be  bad,  an'  them 
illnesses,  which  aforetime  has  him  on  the  go,  sur 
renders  to  the  powers  of  this  yere  new  medicine  like 
willows  to  the  wind.  With  this,  he  goes  caperin' 
out  for  his  camp,  idly  hummin'  a  war  song,  sech  is 
his  relief. 

"An*  here's  where  Johnny  gets  action  on  that 
axle  grease.  It  shorely  teaches,  also,  the  excellence 
of  them  maxims,  *  Cast  your  bread  upon  the  waters 
an*  you'll  be  on  velvet  before  many  days.'  Within 
two  hours  a  couple  of  this  sick  buck's  squaws  comes 
sidlin'  up  to  Johnny  an*  desires  axle  grease.  It's 
quoted  at  four  bits  a  box,  an'  the  squaws  changes  in 
five  pesos  an'  beats  a  retreat,  carryin'  away  ten  boxes. 
Then  the  fame  of  this  big,  new  medicine  spreads  ; 
that  axle  grease  becomes  plenty  pop'lar.  Other 
bucks  an'  other  squaws  shows  up,  changes  in 
their  money,  an'  is  made  happy  with  axle  grease. 
They  never  has  sech  a  time,  them  Osages  don't,  since 
the  battle  of  the  Hoss-shoe.  Son,  they  packs  it  off 


$6  Wolfvillc  Days* 

in  blankets,  freights  it  away  in  wagons.  They  turns 
loose  on  a  reg'lar  axle  grease  spree.  In  a  week 
every  box  is  sold,  an*  thar's  orders  stacked  up  on 
Florer's  desk  for  two  kyar-loads  more,  which  is  bein' 
hurried  on  from  the  East.  Even  the  Injuns'  agent 
gets  wrought  up  about  it,  an*  begins  to  bellow  an1 
paw  'round  by  way  of  compliments  to  Johnny.  He 
makes  Johnny  a  speech. 

"  '  Which  I've  made  your  excellent  discovery,  Mr. 
Florer,'  says  this  agent,  '  the  basis  of  a  report  to  the 
gov'ment  at  Washin'ton.  I  sets  forth  the  mad 
passion  of  these  yere  Osages  for  axle  grease  as  a 
condiment,  a  beverage,  an'  a  cure.  I  explains  the 
tribal  leanin*  that  exists  for  that  speshul  axle  grease 
which  is  crowned  with  years,  an'  owns  a  strength 
which  comes  only  as  the  cor'lary  of  hard  experience. 
Axle  grease  is  like  music  an'  sooths  the  savage 
breast.  It  is  oil  on  the  troubled  waters  of  aborig 
inal  existence.  Its  feet  is  the  feet  of  peace.  At 
the  touch  of  axle  grease  the  hostile  abandons  the 
war  path  an'  surrenders  himse'f.  He  washes  off  his 
paint  an'  becometh  with  axle  grease  as  the  lamb 
that  bleateth.  The  greatest  possible  uprisin'  could 
be  quelled  with  a  consignment  of  axle  grease.  Mr. 
Florer,  I  congratulate  you.  From  a  humble  store- 
keep,  sellin*  soap,  herrin'  an'  salt  hoss,  you  takes 
your  stand  from  now  with  the  ph'lanthropists  an' 
leaders  among  men.  You  have  conjoined  Injuns 
an'  axle  grease.  For  centuries  the  savage  has  been 
a  problem  which  has  defied  gov'ment.  He  will  do 
so  no  more.  Mr.  Florer,  you  have  solved  the  savage 
with  axle  grease.'  " 


CHAPTER  V. 

Toothpick  Johnson's  Ostracism. 

"YOU  sees,"  observed  the  Old  Cattleman,  as  he 
moved  into  the  deeper  shade  ;  "  you  sees  this  yere 
Toothpick  disgraces  Wolfville ;  that's  how  it  is. 
Downs  a  party,  Toothpick  Johnson  does,  an*  no 
gun  on  the  gent,  the  same  bein'  out  of  roole  entire. 
Nacherally,  while  no  one  blames  Toothpick,  who 
makes  the  play  what  you-all  calls  '  bony  fidis,'  the 
public  sort  o'  longs  for  his  eelopement.  An*  that 
settles  it ;  Toothpick  has  to  hunt  out  for  different 
stampirT  grounds. 

"  It  all  comes  from  Toothpick  bein'  by  nacher 
one  of  these  yere  over-zealous  people,  an'  prema- 
toorely  prone  that  a-way.  He's  born  eager,  Tooth 
pick  is,  an*  can't  he'p  it  none. 

"  You-all  has  tracked  up  on  that  breed  of 
cimmaron  plenty  frequent  now.  They're  the  kind 
who  picks  up  a  poker  hand,  kyard  by  kyard,  as  they 
comes.  They're  that  for'ard, — that  headlong  to 
get  outen  the  present  an'  into  the  footure,  they  jest 
can't  wait  for  things  to  have  a  chance  to  happen. 

" '  Whyever  do  you  pull  in  your  kyards  that 
a-way  ? '  I  says  to  Toothpick,  reprovin'  of  him. 
'Why  can't  you  let  'em  lay  till  the  hand's  dealt?' 

"'  Which   I'm    shorely    that  locoed  to  look  if  I 


58  Wolfville  Days, 

ain't  got  three  aces  or  some  sech,'  says  Toothpick, 
'  I  must  turn  'em  up  to  see.' 

"  *  Well,'  says  I,  an*  the  same  is  wisdom  every 
time,  '  you-all  would  appear  more  like  a  dead  cold 
sport  to  let  'em  be,  an'  pick  up  your  whole  hand 
together.  Likewise,  you'd  display  a  mighty  sight 
more  savey  if  you  keeps  your  eyes  on  the  dealer 
till  he  lays  down  the  deck.  You'd  be  less  afflicted 
by  disagreeable  surprises  if  you'd  freeze  to  the  last 
idee  ;  an'  you'd  lay  up  money  besides/ 

"  But  that's  the  notion  I'm  aimin'  to  convey ; 
Toothpick  is  too  quick.  His  intellects,  it  looks  like, 
is  on  eternal  tip-toe  to  get  in  a  stack. 

"'He's  too  simooltaneous,  is  Toothpick,'  says 
Jack  Moore  once,  when  him  an'  Boggs  is  discoursin' 
together,  sizin'  up  Toothpick.  '  He's  that  simool 
taneous  he  comes  mighty  near  bein'  a  whole  lot  too 
adjacent.' 

"  What  does  Toothpick  do  that  time  we-all 
disapproves  an'  stampedes  him  ?  It's  a  accidental 
killin'. 

"  It's  second  drink  time  in  the  evenin',  an*  the 
Tucson  stage  is  in.  Thar's  a  passel  of  us  who 
has  roped  up  our  mail,  an'  now  we're  standin* 
'round  in  front  of  the  Red  Light,  breakin'  into 
letters  an'  papers,  an'  a-makin'  of  comments,  when 
along  wanders  a  party  who's  been  picnicin*  with  the 
camp.  As  the  deal  turns,  he  never  does  stay  long 
nohow;  never  long  enough  to  become  a  'genial 
'quaintance  an'  a  fav'rite  of  all.' 

"  This  party  who  comes  sidlin*  up  is,  as  we  hears, 


Toothpick  Johnson's  Ostracism*  59 

iate  from  Red  Dog ;  an'  doorin'  them  four  hours 
wherein  he  confers  his  society  onto  us,  he  stays 
drunk  habityooal  an'  never  does  lapse  into  bein' 
sober  fora  second.  It's  shore  remark'ble,  now,  how 
all  them  Red  Dog  people  stays  intox'cated  while 
they  sojourns  in  Wolfville.  Never  knows  it  to 
fail;  an'  I  allows,  as  as'lootion  that  a-way,  it's  owin' 
to  the  sooperior  merits  of  our  nose-paint.  It's  a 
compliment  they  pays  us. 

"  However,  this  Red  Dog  gent's  drinkin*  is  his 
own  affairs.  An'  his  earnestness  about  licker  may 
have  been  his  system ;  then  ag'in  it  may  not ;  I 
don't  go  pryin*  none  to  determine.  But  bein'  he's 
plumb  drunk,  as  you  readily  discerns,  it  keeps  up  a 
barrier  ag'in  growin'  intimate  with  this  party; 
an*  ontil  Toothpick  opens  on  him,  his  intercourse 
with  Wolfville  is  nacherally  only  formal. 

"  This  visitor  from  Red  Dog — which  Red  Dog 
itse'f  is  about  as  low-flung  a  bunch  of  crim'nals  as 
ever  gets  rounded  up  an'  called  a  camp — but,  as 
I'm  sayin',  this  totterin'  wreck  I  mentions  comes 
stragglin*  up,  more  or  less  permiscus  an'  vague,  an', 
without  sayin'  a  word  or  makin*  a  sign,  or  even 
shakin'  a  bush,  stands  about  lariat  distance  away  an* 
star's  at  Toothpick,  blinkin'  his  eyes  mighty  ma 
levolent. 

"  It  ain't  no  time  when  this  yere  bluff  on  the  part 
of  the  drinkin'  Red  Dog  gent  attracts  Toothpick, 
who's  been  skirmishin'  'round  among  us  where 
we're  standin*,  an'  is  at  that  time  mentionin*  Freight 
er's  Stew,  as  a  good  thing  to  eat,  to  Dave  Tutt. 


60  Wolfville  Days* 

"  '  Who  be  you-all  admirin'  now  ?  '  asks  Tooth, 
pick  of  the  Red  Dog  party,  who's  glarin'  towards 
him.  It's  then  I  notes  the  lights  begin  to  dance  in 
Toothpick's  eyes ;  with  that  impulsive  sperit  of  his, 
he's  doo  to  become  abrupt  with  our  visitor  at  the 
drop  of  the  hat. 

"  That  Red  Dog  gent  don't  make  no  retort,  but 
stands  thar  with  his  eyes  picketed  on  Toothpick 
like  he's  found  a  victim.  Toothpick  is  fidgetin'  on 
his  feet,  with  his  thumbs  stuck  in  his  belt;  which 
this  last  is  a  bad  symptom,  as  it  leaves  a  gent's  artil 
lery  easy  to  reach. 

"  It  strikes  me  at  the  time  that  it's  even  money 
thar's  goin'  to  be  some  shootin'.  I  don't  then  nor 
now  know  why  none.  But  that  ignorance  is  com 
mon  about  shootin's  ;  two  times  in  three  nobody 
ever  does  know  why. 

"  I  reckons  now  it's  Toothpick's  fidgetin'  makes 
me  suspicious  he's  on  the  brink  of  rousin'  the  o'ca- 
sion  with  his  six-shooter.  Which  if  he's  cool  an* 
ca'm,  it  would  never  come  to  me  that  a-way  ;  a  cool 
gent  never  pulls  the  first  gun,  leastways  never  when 
the  pretext  is  friv'lous  an'  don't  come  onder  the 
head  of 'Must'. 

"'Well,'  says  Toothpick  ag'in,  '  whatever  be 
you-all  gloatin'  over,  I  asks?  Or,  mebby  you're 
thinkin'  of  'doptin'  me  as  a  son  or  somethin'  ?'  says 
Toothpick. 

"  Still  the  party  from  Red  Dog  don't  say  nothin*. 
As  Toothpick  ceases,  however,  this  Red  Dog  per- 
son  makes  a  move,  which  is  reasonable  quick,  for 


Toothpick  Johnson's  Ostracism*  6 1 

his  hip.  He's  got  on  a  long  coat,  an*  while  no  gent 
can  see,  thar's  none  of  us  has  doubts  but  he  is  fully 
dressed,  an*  that  he's  searchin'  out  his  Colt's. 

"  That's  what  Toothpick  allows  ;  an'  the  Red  Dog 
party's  hand  ain't  traveled  two  inches  onder  his  sur- 
toot,  when  Toothpick  cuts  free  his  '44,  an'  the  Red 
Dog  party  hits  the  ground,  face  down,  like  a  kyard 
jest  dealt. 

"  Yes,  he's  dead  enough ;  never  does  kick  or 
flutter  once.  It's  shorely  a  shot  in  the  cross. 

" '  Do  you-all  note  how  he  tries  to  fill  his  hand  on 
me?  '  asks  Toothpick,  mighty  cheerful. 

"  Toothpick  stoops  down  for  the  Red  Dog  man's 
gun,  an'  what  do  you-all  think?  He  don't  have  no 
weepon,  none  whatever ;  nothin'  more  vig'rous  than 
a  peaceful  flask  of  whiskey,  which  the  same  is  still 
all  safe  in  his  r'ar  pocket. 

"  '  He  warn't  heeled  ! '  says  Toothpick,  straight- 
enin'  up  an'  lookin'  at  us  apol'getic  an'  disgusted. 

"  It's  jestice  to  Toothpick  to  say,  I  never  yet 
overtakes  that  gent  who's  more  abashed  an'  dis 
couraged  than  he  is  when  he  finds  this  person  ain't 
packin'  no  gun.  He  surveys  the  remainder  a  second, 
an*  says: 

" '  Gents,  if  ever  the  licker  for  the  camp  is  on 
Toothpick  Johnson,  it's  now.  But  thar's  one  last 
dooty  to  perform  touchin'  deceased.  It's  evident, 
departed  is  about  to  ask  me  to  drink.  It's  this  yere 
motion  he  makes  for  his  whiskey  which  I  mistakes 
for  a  gun  play.  Thar  I  errs,  an'  stacks  up  this  Red 
Dog  person  wrong.  Now  that  I  onderstands,  while 


62  Wolfvillc  Days. 

acknowledgin*  my  fal'cies,  the  least  I  can  do  is  to 
respect  deceased's  last  wishes.  I  tharfore,'  says 
Toothpick,  raisin'  the  Red  Dog  party's  flask,  'com 
plies  with  what,  if  I  hadn't  interrupted  him,  would 
have  been  his  last  requests.  An'  regrettin'  I  don't 
savey  sooner,  I  drinks  to  him.' 

"No,"  concluded  the  Old  Cattleman,  "as  I  in- 
timates  at  the  go-off,  Toothpick  don't  stay  long 
after  that.  No  one  talks  of  stringin*  him  for  what's 
a  plain  case  of  bad  jedgment,  an'  nothin'  more. 
But  still,  Wolfville  takes  a  notion  ag'in  him,  an* 
don't  want  him  'round  none.  So  he  has  to  freight 
out. 

" '  You  are  all  right,  Toothpick,  speakin*  gen'ral,' 
says  Old  Man  Enright,  when  him  an'  Doc  Peets  an' 
Jack  Moore  comes  up  on  Toothpick  to  notify  him  it's 
the  Stranglers'  idee  he'd  better  pack  his  wagons  an' 
hit  the  trail,  '  but  you  don't  hold  your  six-shooter 
enough  in  what  Doc  Peets  yere  calls  "  abeyance." 
Without  puttin*  no  stain  on  your  character,  it's 
right  to  say  you  ain't  sedentary  enough,  an'  that 
you-all  is  a  heap  too  soon  besides.  In  view,  thar 
fore,  of  what  I  states,  an'  of  you  droppin'  this  yere 
Red  Dog  gent — not  an  ounce  of  iron  on  him  at  the 
time ! — while  we  exonerates,  we  decides  without  a 
dissentin'  vote  to  sort  o'  look  'round  the  camp  for 
you  to-morry,  say  at  sundown,  an'  hang  you  some, 
should  you  then  be  present  yere.  That's  how  the 
herd  is  grazin',  Toothpick :  an'  if  you're  out  to  com 
mit  sooicide,  you'll  be  partic'lar  to  be  with  us  at  the 
hour  I  names.' ' 


CHAPTER  VL 
The  Wolfvilie  Daily  Coyote. 

"  YOU-ALL  remembers  back,"  said  the  Old  Cattle- 
man,  "  that  yeretofore  I  su'gests  how  at  some 
appropriate  epock,  I  relates  about  the  comin'  of 
Colonel  William  Greene  Sterett  an'  that  advent  of 
Wolfville's  great  daily  paper,  the  Coyote." 

It  was  evening  and  sharply  in  the  wake  of  dinner. 
We  were  gathered  unto  ourselves  in  my  friend's 
apartments.  In  excellent  mood  to  hear  of  Colonel 
Sterett  and  his  celebrated  journal,  I  eagerly  assured 
him  that  his  promise  in  said  behalf  was  fresh  and 
fragrant  in  my  memory,  and  that  I  trusted  he 
would  find  present  opportunity  for  its  redemption. 
Thus  encouraged,  the  old  gentleman  shoved  the  box 
of  cigars  towards  me,  poured  a  generous  glass,  and 
disposed  himself  to  begin. 

"  Red  Dog  in  a  sperit  of  vain  competition," 
observed  my  friend,  "  starts  a  paper  about  the  same 
time  Colonel  Sterett  founds  the  Coyote •;  an',  son,  for 
a  while,  them  imprints  has  a  lurid  life  !  The  Red 
Dog  paper  don't  last  long  though  ;  it  lacks  them  ele 
ments  of  longevity  which  the  Coyote  possesses,  an' 
it  ain't  runnin'  many  weeks  before  it  sort  o*  rots 
down  all  at  once,  an'  the  editor  jumps  the  game. 


64  Wolfvillc  Days* 

"  It's  ever  been  a  subject  of  dissensions  between 
Colonel  Sterett  an*  myse'f  as  to  where  impartial 
jestice  should  lay  the  blame  of  that  Red  Dog 
paper's  failure.  Colonel  Sterett  charges  it  onto  the 
editor;  but  it's  my  beliefs,  an'  I'm  j'ined  tharin  by 
Boggs  an'  Texas  Thompson,  that  no  editor  could 
flourish  an'  no  paper  survive  in  surroundin's  so 
plumb  venomous  an'  p'isen  as  Red  Dog.  More- 
over,  I  holds  that  Colonel  Sterett,  onintentional  no 
doubt,  takes  a  ja'ndiced  view  of  that  brother  pub 
lisher.  But  I  rides  ahead  of  my  tale. 

"  Thar  comes  a  day  when  Old  Man  Enright  heads 
into  the  Red  Light,  where  we-all  is  discussin'  of 
eepisodes,  an*  he  packs  a  letter  in  his  hand. 

"  '  Yere's  a  matter,'  he  says,  '  of  public  concern, 
an*  I  asks  for  a  full  expression  of  the  camp  for 
answer.  Yere's  a  sharp  by  the  name  of  Colonel 
William  Greene  Sterett,  who  writes  me  as  how  he's 
sufTerin'  to  let  go  all  holts  in  the  States  an'  start  a 
paper  in  Wolfville.  It  shall  be,  he  says,  a  pro- 
gressif  an'  enlightened  journal,  devoted  to  the 
moral,  mental  an'  material  upheaval  of  this  yere 
commoonity,  an'  he  aims  to  learn  our  views.  Do  I 
hear  any  remarks  on  this  litteratoor's  prop'sition  ?  ' 

" '  Tell  him  to  come  a-runnin',  Enright,'  says 
Jack  Moore ;  '  an'  draw  it  strong.  If  thar's  one 
want  which  is  slowly  but  shorely  crowdin'  Wolf. 
ville  to  the  wall,  it's  a  dearth  of  literatoor;  yere's 
our  chance,  an*  we  plays  it  quick  an  high.' 

" '  I  ain't  so  gala  confident  of  all  this,'  says  Dan 
Boggs.  '  I'm  sort  o'  allowin'  this  hamlet's  too 


The  Wolfville  Daily  Coyote.  65 

feeble  yet  for  a  paper.  StartirT  a  paper  in  a  small 
camp  this  a-way  is  like  givin'  a  six-shooter  to  a  boy; 
most  likely  he  shoots  himse'f,  or  mebby  busts  the 
neighbor,  tharwith/ 

" '  Oh,  I  don't  know,'  says  Doc  Peets,  who,  I 
wants  to  say,  is  as  sudden  a  white  man,  mental,  as  I 
ever  sees  ;  '  my  notion  is  to  bring  him  along.  The 
mere  idee  of  a  paper'll  do  a  heap  for  the  town.' 

"'I'm  entertainin'  sentiments  similar,'  says 
Enright ;  '  an'  I  guess  I'll  write  this  Colonel  Sterett 
that  we'll  go  him  once  if  we  lose.  I'm  assisted  to 
this  concloosion  by  hearin',  the  last  time  I'm  in 
Tucson,  that  Red  Dog,  which  is  our  rival,  is  out  to 
start  ;:  paper,  in  which  event  it  behooves  Wolfville 
to  split  even  with  'em  at  the  least.' 

"  '  That's  whatever  ! '  says  Moore.  '  K  we  allows 
Red  Dog  to  put  it  onto  us  that  a-way  we  might 
jest  as  well  dissolve  Wolfville  as  a  camp,  an'  reepair 
to  the  woods  in  a  body.' 

"  Enright  sends  Colonel  Sterett  word,  an'  in  four 
weeks  he  comes  packin'  in  his  layout  an*  opens  up 
his  game.  Colonel  Sterett.  personal,  is  a  broad, 
thick,  fine-seemin'  gent,  with  a  smooth,  high  for'ead, 
grey  eyes,  an'  a  long,  honest  face  like  a  hoss.  The 
Colonel  has  a  far-off  look  in  his  eyes,  like  he's 
dreamin'  of  things  sublime,  which  Doc  Peets  says 
is  the  common  look  of  lit'rary  gents  that  a-way. 
Texas  Thompson,  however,  allows  he  witnesses  the 
same  distant  expression  in  the  eyes  of  a  foogitive 
from  jestice. 

"  Colonel  Sterett  makes  a  good  impression.     He 


66  Wolfville  Days. 

evolves  his  journal  an'  names  it  the  Coyote,  a  name 
applauded  by  us  all.  I'll  read  you  a  few  of  them 
earliest  items  ;  which  I'm  able  to  give  these  yere 
notices  exact,  as  I  preserves  a  file  of  the  Coyote  com 
plete.  I  shorely  wouldn't  be  without  it ;  none  what- 
ever ! 

"  Miss  Faro  Nell,  Wolfville's  beautiful  and  accomplished 
society  belle,  condescended  to  grace  the  post  of  lookout  last 
night  for  the  game  presided  over  by  our  eminent  townsman, 
Mr.  Cherokee  Hall. 

"  '  Ain't  it  sweet  ? '  says  Faro  Nell,  when  she 
reads  it.  *  I  thinks  it's  jest  lovely.  The  drinks  is 
on  me,  barkeep.'  Then  we  goes  on : 

"  Mr.  Samuel  Johnson  Enright,  a  namesake  of  the  great 
lexicographer,  and  the  Lycurgus  of  Wolfville,  paid  a  visit  to 
Tucson  last  week. 

"  Any  person  possessing  leisure  and  a  stack  of  chips  can 
adventure  the  latter  under  conditions  absolutely  equitable  with 
that  distinguished  courtier  of  fortune,  Mr.  Cherokee  Hall. 

"  If  Mr.  John  Moore,  our  efficient  Marshal,  will  refrain  from 
pinning  his  targets  for  pistol  practice  to  the  exterior  of  our 
building,  we  will  bow  our  gratitude  when  next  we  meet.  The 
bullets  go  right  through. 

"  We  were  distressed  last  week  to  note  that  Mr.  James 
Hamilton,  the  gentlemanly  and  urbane  proprietor  of  Wolfville's 
temple  of  terpsichoir  (see  ad.  in  another  column)  had  changed 
whiskeys  on  us,  and  was  dispensing  what  seemed  to  our  throat 
a  tincture  of  the  common  carpet  tack  of  commerce.  It  is  our 
hope  that  Mr.  H.,  on  seeing  this,  will  at  once  restore  the  statu 
quo  at  his  justly  popular  resort. 

"  A  reckless  Mexican  was  parading  the  street  the  other 
night  carrying  in  his  hand  a  monkey  wrench.  It  was  dark, 


The  Wolfville  Daily  Coyote.  67 

and  Mr.  Daniel  Boggs,  a  leading  citizen  of  Wolfville,  who  met 
him,  mistaking  the  wrench  for  a  pistol  which  the  Mexican  was 
carrying  for  some  vile  purpose,  very  properly  shot  him.  Mex 
icans  are  far  too  careless  this  way. 

"  The  O.  K.  Restauraw  is  one  of  the  few  superior  hostelries 
of  the  Territory.  Mrs.  Rucker,  its  charming  proprietress,  is  a 
cook  who  might  outrival  even  that  celebrated  chef,  now  dead, 
M.  Soyer.  Her  pies  are  poems,  her  bread  an  epic,  and  her 
beans  a  dream.  Mrs.  Rucker  has  cooked  her  way  to  every 
heart,  and  her  famed  establishment  is  justly  regarded  as  the 
bright  particular  gem  in  Wolfville's  municipal  crown. 

"It  is  not  needed  for  us  to  remind  our  readers  that  Wolf 
ville  possesses  in  the  person  of  that  celebrated  practitioner  of 
medicine,  Mr.  Cadwallader  Peets,  M.  D.,  a  scientist  whose 
fame  is  world-wide  and  whose  renown  has  reached  to  furthest 
lands.  Doctor  Peets  has  beautifully  mounted  the  skull  of  that 
horse-stealing  ignobility,  Bear  Creek  Stanton,  who  recently 
suffered  the  punishment  due  his  many  crimes  at  the  hands  of 
our  local  vigilance  committee,  a  tribunal  which  under  the  dis 
cerning  leadership  of  President  Enright,  never  fails  in  the  ad 
ministration  of  justice.  Doctor  Peets  will  be  glad  to  exhibit 
this  memento  mori  to  all  who  care  to  call.  Doctor  Peets,  who 
is  eminent  as  a  phrenologist,  avers  that  said  skull  is  remarkable 
for  its  thickness,  and  that  its  conformation  points  to  the  pos 
session  by  Bear  Creek,  while  he  wore  it,  of  the  most  powerful 
natural  inclinations  to  crime.  From  these  discoveries  of  Doc 
tor  Peets,  the  committee  which  suspended  this  felon  to  the 
windmill  is  to  be  congratulated  on  acting  just  in  time.  It 
seems  plain  from  the  contour  of  this  skull  that  it  would  not 
have  been  long,  had  not  the  committee  intervened,  before 
Bear  Creek  would  have  added  murder  to  horse  larceny,  and 
to-day  the  town  might  be  mourning  the  death  of  a  valued  cit 
izen  instead  of  felicitating  itself  over  the  taking-off  of  a  villain 
whose  very  bumps  indict  and  convict  him  with  every  fair  and 
enlightened  intelligence  that  is  brought  to  their  contemplation. 


68  Wolfville  Days. 

"  Our  respected  friend  and  subscriber,  Mr.  David  Tutt,  and 
his  beautiful  and  accomplished  lady,  Mrs.  David  Tutt,  nee 
Tucson  Jennie,  have  returned  from  their  stay  in  Silver  City. 
Last  night  in  honor  of  their  coming,  and  to  see  their  friends, 
this  amiable  and  popular  pair  gave  an  At  Home.  There  was 
every  form  of  refreshment,  and  joy  and  merriment  was  un- 
confined.  Miss  Faro  Nell  was  admittedly  the  belle  of  this 
festive  occasion,  and  Diana  would  have  envied  her  as,  radiant 
and  happy,  she  led  the  grand  march  leaning  on  the  arm  of  Mr. 
Cherokee  Hall.  By  request  of  Mr.  Daniel  Boggs,  the  '  Lariat 
Polka'  was  added  to  the  programme  of  dances,  as  was  also 
the  '  Pocatello  Reel '  at  the  instance  of  Mr.  Texas  Thompson. 
As  the  ball  progressed,  and  at  the  particular  desire  of  those 
present,  Mr.  Boggs  and  Mr.  Thompson  entertained  the  company 
with  that  difficult  and  intricate  dance  known  as  the  '  Mountain 
Lion  Mazourka,'  accompanying  their  efforts  with  spirited 
vocalisms  meant  to  imitate  the  defiant  screams  of  a  panther 
on  its  native  hills.  These  cries,  as  well  as  the  dance  itself, 
were  highly  realistic,  and  Messrs.  B.  and  T.  were  made  the 
recipients  of  many  compliments.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Tutt  are  to 
be  congratulated  on  the  success  of  the  function  ;  to  fully  describe 
its  many  excellent  features  would  exhaust  encomium. 

11  Which  we  reads  the  foregoin'  with  onmixed 
pleasure,  an'  thar  ain't  a  gent  but  who's  plumb  con 
vinced  that  a  newspaper,  that  a-way,  is  the  bulwark 
of  civilizations  an*  corner-stone  of  American  insti- 
tootions,  which  it's  allowed  to  be  by  the  voices  of 
them  ages. 

"  *  This  yere  imprint,  the  Coyote?  says  Jack 
Moore,  ( is  a  howlin'  triumph,  an'  any  gent  disposed 
can  go  an'  make  a  swell  bet  on  it  with  every  cer 
tainty  of  a-killin'.  Also,  I  remembers  yereafter 
about  them  bullets.' 


The  Wolfville  Daily  Coyote,  69 

"  Meanwhile,  like  I  states  prior,  Red  Dog  has  its 
editor,  who  whirls  loose  a  paper  which  he  calls  the 
Stingiri  Lizard.  The  Red  Dog  sheet  ain't  a  marker 
to  Colonel  Sterett's  Coyote,  an'  it's  the  yooniversal 
idee  in  Wolfville,  after  ca'mly  comparin'  the  two 
papers,  that  Colonel  Sterett  as  a  editor  can  simply 
back  that  Red  Dog  person  plumb  off  the  ground. 

"  It  ain't  no  time  before  Colonel  Sterett  an'  the 
Red  Dog  editor  takes  to  cirklin'  for  trouble,  an'  the 
frightful  names  they  applies  to  each  other  in  their 
respectif  journals,  an'  the  accoosations  an'  them 
epithets  they  hurls,  would  shore  curdle  the  blood 
of  a  grizzly  b'ar. 

"  An'  as  if  to  complicate  the  sityooation  for  that 
onhappy  sport  who's  gettin'  out  the  Red  Dog 
Stingin  Lizard,  he  begins  to  have  trouble  local. 
Thar's  a  chuck-shop  at  Red  Dog— it's  a  plumb  low 
j'int  ;  I  never  knows  it  to  have  any  grub  better 
than  beans,  salt  pig  an'  airtights, — which  is  called 
the  ABE  LINCOLN  HOUSE,  an'  is  kept  by  a  party 
named  Pete  Bland.  Which  this  yere  Bland  also 
owns  a  goat,  the  same  bein'  a  gift  of  a  Mexican 
who's  got  in  the  hole  to  Bland  an'  squar's  accounts 
that  a-way. 

"  This  goat  is  jest  a  simple-minded,  every-day, 
common  kind  of  a  goat ;  but  he's  mighty  thorough 
in  his  way,  allers  on  the  hustle,  an'  if  he  ever  over 
looks  a  play,  no  one  don't  know  it.  One  day,  when 
the  Red  Dog  editor  is  printin'  off  his  papers,  up 
comes  the  goat,  an'  diskyardin'  of  the  tin-can  which 
he's  chewin',  he  begins  debauchin'  of  himse'f  with 


70  Wolfvillc  Days. 

this  yere  edition  of  the  Stingiri  Lizard.  It's  mighty 
soon  when  the  editor  discovers  it  an'  lays  for  the 
goat  permiscus;  he  goes  to  chunkin'  of  him  up  a 
whole  lot.  The  goat's  game  an'  declar's  himse'f,  an' 
thar  starts  a  altercation  with  the  editor  an*  the  goat, 
of  which  thar's  no  tellin'  the  wind-up,  an*  which 
ends  only  when  this  yere  Bland  cuts  in,  an'  the 
goat's  drug  home.  The  paper  is  stopped  an'  the 
editor  puts  in  this  : 

"  Our  presses  are  stopped  to-day  to  say  that  if  the  weak- 
minded  person  who  maintains  the  large,  black  goat  which 
infests  our  streets,  does  not  kill  the  beast,  we  will.  To-day, 
while  engaged  in  working  off  our  mammoth  edition  out  back  of 
our  building,  the  thievish  creature  approached  unnoticed  and 
consumed  seventeen  copies  of  the  Stinging  Lizard. 

"  Which  this  yere  Bland  gets  incensed  at  this,  an' 
puts  it  up  the  editor  can't  eat  with  him  no  more. 
But  better  counsel  smooths  it  over,  an'  at  last  this 
Bland  forgives  the  editor,  an*  all  is  forgot.  The 
goat,  however,  never  does  ;  an'  he  stamps  his  foot  an' 
prowls  'round  for  a  fracas  every  time  him  an'  that 
editor  meets. 

"  All  this  yere  time  Colonel  Sterett  an'  this  same 
Red  Dog  editor  maintains  them  hostilities.  The 
way  they  lams  loose  at  each  other  in  their  papers  is 
a  terror.  I  allers  reckons  Colonel  Sterett  gets  a  heap 
the  best  of  this  yere  mane-chewin'  ;  we-all  so  re- 
gyards  it,  an'  so  does  he ;  an'  he  keeps  his  end  up 
with  great  sperit  an'  voylence. 

"  These  yere  ink-riots  don't  go  on  more'n  two 
months,  however,  when  Colonel  Sterett  decides  that 


The  Wolfville  Daily  Coyote.  71 

the  o'casion  calls  for  somethin'  more  explicit.  As 
he  says,  '  Patience  ceases  to  be  trumps,'  an'  so  he 
saddles  up  a  whole  lot  an*  rides  over  to  Red  Dog, 
personal.  Colonel  Sterett  don't  impart  them  plans 
of  his  to  no  one  ;  he  simply  descends  on  his  foe, 
sole  an'  alone,  like  that  game  an'  chivalrous  gent  of 
bell  letters  which  he  shorely  is ;  an',  son,  Colonel 
Sterett  makes  a  example  of  that  slander-mongerin' 
Red  Dog  editor. 

"  It's  about  the  last  drink  time  in  the  mornin',  an* 
a  passel  of  them  Red  Dog  sports  is  convened  in  front 
of  the  Tub  of  Blood  s'loon,  when  they-all  hears  a 
crash  an'  looks  up,  an*  thar's  their  editor  a-soarin' 
out  of  his  second-story  window.  Of  course,  in 
a  second  or  so,  he  hits  the  ground,  an'  them  Red 
Dog  folks  goes  over  to  get  the  rights  of  this  yere 
phenomenon.  He  ain't  hurt  so  but  what  he  gets  up 
an'  limps  'round,  an'  he  tells  'em  it's  the  Wolfville 
editor  does  it.  Next  time  the  Stingin  Lizard  comes 
out,  we  reads  about  it : 

"  The  gasconading  reptile  who  is  responsible  for  the  slimy 
life  of  that  prurient  sheet,  the  Coyote,  paid  us  a  sneaking  visit 
Saturday.  If  he  had  given  us  notice  of  his  intentions,  we  would 
have  prepared  ourselves  and  torn  his  leprous  hide  from  his 
debauched  and  whiskey-poisoned  frame,  and  polluted  our  fence 
with  it,  but  he  did  not.  True  to  his  low,  currish  nature,  he 
crept  upon  us  unawares.  Our  back  was  toward  him  as  he 
entered,  perceiving  which  the  cowardly  poltroon  seized  us  and 
threw  us  through  our  own  window.  Having  accomplished  his 
fiendish  work,  the  miscreant  left,  justly  fearing  our  wrath.  The 
Stinging  Lizard's  exposure  of  this  scoundrel  as  a  drunkard, 
embezzler,  wife- beater,  jail-bird,  thief,  and  general  all-round 


72  Wolfville  Days. 

blackleg  prompted  this   outrage.    Never   mind,   the   creature 
will  hear  from  us. 

"  '  Which  this  newspaper  business  is  shorely  gettin* 
some  bilious,  not  to  say  hectic,  a  whole  lot,'  says 
Dan  Boggs,  as  we  reads  this.  '  I  wonder  if  these 
yere  folks  means  fight  ? ' 

"  *  Why/  says  Enright,  *  I  don't  know  as  they'd 
fight  none  if  we-all  lets  'em  alone,  but  I  don't  see 
how  we  can.  This  sort  of  racket  goes  on  for  years 
in  the  East,  but  Wolfville  can't  stand  it.  Sech  talk 
as  this  means  blood  in  Arizona,  an'  we  insists  on 
them  traditions  that  a-way  bein'  respected.  Besides, 
we  owes  somethin'  to  Colonel  Sterett/ 

"  So  Enright  an*  Cherokee  hunts  up  our  editor  an* 
asks  him  whatever  he  aims  to  do,  an'  tells  him  he's 
aroused  public  sentiments  to  sech  heights  thar'll  be 
a  pop'lar  disapp'intment  if  he  don't  challenge  the 
Red  Dog  editor  an'  beef  him.  Colonel  Sterett 
allows  he's  crazy  to  do  it,  an'  that  the  Wolfville 
public  can  gamble  he'll  go  the  distance.  So  Chero 
kee  an'  Jack  Moore  puts  on  their  guns  an'  goes  over 
to  Red  Dog  to  fix  time  an'  place.  The  Red  Dog 
editor  says  he's  with  'em,  an'  they  shakes  dice  for 
place,  an'  Cherokee  an'  Moore  wins. 

" '  Which  as  evidence  of  good  faith/  says  Chero 
kee,  '  we  picks  Red  Dog.  We  pulls  this  thing  off 
on  the  very  scene  of  the  vict'ry  of  Colonel  Sterett 
when  he  hurls  your  editor  through  his  window  that 
time.  I  holds  the  same  to  be  a  mighty  proper 
scheme.' 

" '  You-all  needn't  be  timid  none  to  come/  says 


The  Wolfville  Daily  Coyote*  73 

the  Red  Dog  sports.     '  You  gets  a  squar'  deal  from 
a  straight  deck ;  you  can  gamble  on  that.' 

" '  Oh,  we  ain't  apprehensif  none,'  says  Cherokee 
an'  Jack ;  *  you  can  shorely  look  for  us.' 

"  Well,  the  day's  come,  an*  all  Wolfville  an*  Red 
Dog  turns  out  to  see  the  trouble.  Jack  Moore  an* 
Cherokee  Hall  represents  for  our  editor,  an'  a  brace 
of  Red  Dog  people  shows  down  for  the  Stingin 
Lizard  man.  To  prevent  accidents,  Enright  an*  the 
Red  Dog  chief  makes  every  gent  but  them  I  names, 
leave  their  weepons  some'ers  else,  wherefore  thar 
ain't  a  gun  in  what  you-all  might  call  the  hands  of 
the  pop'laces. 

"  But  thar  comes  a  interruption.  Jest  as  them 
dooelists  gets  placed,  thar's  a  stoopendous  commo 
tion,  an'  chargin'  through  the  crowd  comes  that 
abandoned  goat.  The  presence  of  so  many  folks 
seems  like  it  makes  him  onusual  hostile.  Without 
waitin'  to  catch  his  breath  even,  he  lays  for  the  Red 
Dog  editor,  who,  seem'  him  comin',  bangs  away 
with  his  '45  an'  misses.  The  goat  hits  that  author 
in  the  tail  of  his  coat,  an'  over  he  goes  ;  but  he  keeps 
on  slammin'  away  with  the  '45  jest  the  same. 

"  Which  nacherally  everybody  scatters  for  cover 
at  the  first  shot,  'cause  the  editor  ain't  carin'  where 
he  p'ints,  an'  in  a  second  nobody's  in  sight  but  them 
two  journalists  an'  that  goat.  I'll  say  right  yere, 
son,  Colonel  Sterett  an'  his  fellow  editor  an'  the 
goat  wages  the  awfullest  battle  which  I  ever  be 
holds.  Which  you  shorely  oughter  heard  their  ex, 
pressions  .  Each  of  'em  lets  go  every  load  he's  got, 
but  the  goat  don't  get  hit  onct. 


74  Wolfville  Days* 

"  When  we-all  counts  twelve  shots — six  apiece — 
we  goes  out  an*  subdoos  the  goat  by  the  power  of 
numbers.  Of  course,  the  dooel's  ended.  The  Red 
Dog  folks  borries  a  wagon  an'  takes  away  their 
man,  who's  suffered  a  heap  ;  an*  Peets,  he  stays 
over  thar  an'  fusses  'round  all  night  savin'  of  him. 
The  goat's  all  right  an'  goes  back  to  the  ABE  LIN 
COLN  HOUSE,  where  this  yere  Pete  Bland  is  onrea- 
sonable  enough  to  back  that  shockin'  conduct  of 
his'n. 

"  Which  it's  the  last  of  the  Red  Dog  Stingiri 
Lizard.  That  editor  allows  he  won't  stay,  an* 
Bland,  still  adherin'  to  his  goat,  allows  he  won't 
feed  him  none  if  he  does.  The  next  issue  of  the 
Stingiri  Lizard  contains  this : 

"  We  bid  adieu  to  Red  Dog.  We  will  hereafter  publish  a 
paper  in  Tucson  ;  and  if  we  have  been  weak  and  mendacious 
enough  to  speak  in  favor  of  a  party  of  the  name  of  Bland,  who 
misconducts  a  low  beanery  which  insults  an  honourable  man  by 
stealing  his  name — we  refer  to  that  feed-trough  called  the  ABE 
LINCOLN  HOUSE — we  will  correct  ourselves  in  its  columns. 
This  person  harbours  a  vile  goat,  for  whose  death  we  will  pay 
$5,  and  give  besides  a  life-long  subscription  to  our  new  paper. 
Last  week  this  mad  animal  made  an  unprovoked  assault  upon  us 
and  a  professional  brother,  and  beat,  butted,  wounded,  bruised 
and  ill-treated  us  until  we  suffer  in  our  whole  person.  We  give 
notice  as  we  depart,  that  under  no  circumstances  will  we  return 
until  this  goat  is  extinct. 

"  Followin'  the  onexpected  an'  thrillin'  finish  of 
Colonel  Sterett's  dooel  with  the  Red  Dog  editor, 
an'  from  which  Colonel  Sterett  emerges  onscathed, 


The  Wolfville  Daily  Coyote.  75 

an'  leavin*  Peets  with  his  new  patient,  we-all  re 
turns  in  a  body  to  Wolfville.  After  refreshments 
in  the  Red  Light,  Enright  gives  his  views. 

"  *  Ondoubted,'  observes  Enright,  *  our  gent, 
Colonel  Sterett,  conducts  himse'f  in  them  painful 
scenes  between  him  an*  the  goat  an'  that  Red  Dog 
editor  in  a  manner  to  command  respects,  an'  he  re 
turns  with  honors  from  them  perils.  Thar's  no 
more  to  be  done.  The  affair  closes  without  a  stain 
on  the  'scutcheon  of  Wolfville,  or  the  fair  fame  of 
Colonel  Sterett  ;  which  last  may  continyoo  to  pro 
mulgate  his  valyooable  paper,  shore  of  our  con 
fidence  an'  upheld  by  our  esteem.  It  is  not 
incumbent  on  him  to  further  pursoo  this  affair. 
His  name  an'  honor  is  satisfied  ;  besides,  no  gent 
can  afford  the  recognitions  and  privileges  of  the 
dooello  to  a  party  who's  sunk  so  low  as  to  have 
hostile  differences  with  a  goat,  an' who  persists  pub 
licly  in  followin' 'em  to  bitter  an  voylent  concloo- 
sions.  This  Red  Dog  editor's  done  put  himse'f 
outside  the  pale  of  any  high-sperited  gent's  con 
sideration  by  them  actions,  an*  can  claim  no 
further  notice.  Gents,  in  the  name  of  Wolfville,  I 
tenders  congrat'lations  to  Colonel  Sterett  on  the 
way  in  which  he  meets  the  dangers  of  his  p'sition, 
an*  the  sooperb  fashion  in  which  he  places  before  us 
one  of  the  greatest  journals  of  our  times.  Gents,  we 
drinks  to  Colonel  William  Greene  Sterett  an'  the 
Coyote.' " 


CHAPTER  VH. 
Cherokee  Hall  Plays  Poker* 

"  NACHERALLY  I'm  not  much  of  a  sport,"  remarked 
the  Old  Cattleman,  as  he  laid  down  a  paper  which 
told  a  Monte  Carlo  story  of  a  fortune  lost  and  won. 
"  Which  I'm  not  remorseless  enough  to  be  a  clean- 
strain  gambler.  Of  course,  a  kyard  sharp  can  make 
benevolences  an'  lavish  dust  on  the  needy  on  the 
side,  but  when  it  gets  to  a  game  for  money,  he  can't 
afford  no  ruthfulness  that  a-way,  tryin'  not  to  hurt 
the  sore  people.  He  must  play  his  system  through, 
an*  with  no  more  conscience  than  cows,  no  matter 
who's  run  down  in  the  stampede. 

"  For  which  causes,  bein'  plumb  tender  an'  sym 
pathetic,  I'm  shore  no  good  with  kyards  ;  an' when 
ever  I  dallies  tharwith,  it  is  onder  the  head  of 
amoosements. 

"  Do  I  regyard  gamblin'  as  immoral  ?  No  ;  I 
don't  reckon  none  now  I  do.  This  bein'  what  you- 
all  church  sharps  calls  moral  is  somewhat  a  matter 
of  health,  an'  likewise  the  way  you  feels.  Sick  folks 
usual  is  a  heap  more  moral  than  when  their 
health's  that  excellent  it's  tantalizin'. 

"  Speakin'  of  morals,  I  recalls  people  who  would 
scorn  kyards,  but  who'd  admire  to  buy  a  widow's 


Cherokee  Hall  Plays  Poker.  77 

steers  for  four  dollars  an'  saw  'em  off  ag'in  for  forty. 
They'd  take  four  hundred  dollars  if  some  party, 
locoed  to  a  degree  which  permits  said  outrage, 
would  turn  up.  The  right  or  wrong,  what  you  calls 
the  morality  of  gatherin'  steers  for  four  dollars  an' 
plunderin*  people  with  'em  at  forty  dollars,  wouldn't 
bother  'em  a  bit.  Which  the  question  with  these 
yere  wolves  is  simply :  '  How  little  can  I  pay  an' 
how  much  can  I  get  ? '  An'  yet,  as  I  says,  sech 
parties  mighty  likely  holds  themse'fs  moral  to  a 
degree  which  is  mountainous,  an'  wouldn't  take  a 
twist  at  faro-bank,  or  pick  up  a  poker  hand,  more'n 
they'd  mingle  with  t'rant'lers  an'  stingin'  lizards. 
An'  some  of  them  moral  sports  is  so  onlib'ral !  I 
tells  you,  son,  I've  met  up  with  'em  who's  that 
stingy  that  if  they  owned  a  lake,  they  wouldn't  give 
a  duck  a  drink. 

"  '  Gamblin*  is  immoral  that  a-way,'  says  these 
yere  sports. 

"  An'  yet  I  don't  see  no  sech  heinous  difference 
between  searchin'  a  gent  for  his  roll  with  steers  at 
forty  dollars — the  same  standin'  you  in  four — an* 
layin'  for  him  by  raisin'  the  ante  for  the  limit  before 
the  draw.  Mighty  likely  thar's  a  reason  why  one's 
moral  an'  the  other's  black  an'  bad,  but  I  admits 
onblushin'ly  that  the  onearthin'  tharof  is  shore  too 
many  for  dim-eyed  folks  like  me.  They  strikes  me 
a  heap  sim'lar ;  only  the  kyard  sharp  goes  out 
ag'inst  chances  which  the  steer  sharp  escapes  com, 
plete. 

"  I  reckons  Cherokee  Hall  an'  me  discusses  how 


78  "WolfvIHe  Days. 

wrong  gamblin'  is  hundreds  of  times  on  leesure 
days ;  we  frequent  talks  of  it  immoderate.  Chero 
kee's  views  an*  mine  is  side  an*  side,  mostly, 
although,  makin'  his  livin'  turnin'  kyards,  of  course 
he's  more  qualified  to  speak  than  me. 

"  '  Which  I  shore  finds  nothin'  wrong  in  faro- 
bank/  says  Cherokee.  '  Thar's  times,  however, 
when  some  sport  who's  locoed  by  bad  luck,  or 
thinks  he's  wronged,  gets  diffusive  with  his  gun. 
At  sech  epocks  this  device  has  its  burdens,  I  con 
cedes.  But  I  don't  perceive  no  immorality ;  none 
whatever.' 

"  Yes,  now  you  asks  the  question,  I  does  inform 
you  a  while  back  of  this  Cherokee  Hall  bein'  prone 
to  charity.  He  never  is  much  of  a  talker,  but  in  his 
way  he's  a  mighty  gregar'ous  gent.  About  some 
things  he's  game  as  hornets,  Cherokee  is ;  but  his 
nerve  fails  him  when  it  comes  to  seein*  other  people 
suffer.  He  can  stand  bad  luck  himse'f,  an'  never 
turn  a  ha'r ;  but  no  one  else's  bad  luck. 

"  It  ain't  once  a  week,  but  it's  every  day,  when 
this  yere  gray-eyed  sport  is  robbin'  his  roll  for 
somebody  who's  settin'  in  ag'inst  disaster.  Fact ; 
Cherokee's  a  heap  weak  that  a-way. 

"  Of  course,  turnin'  faro,  Cherokee  knows  who  has 
money  an'  who  needs  it ;  keeps  tab,  so  to  speak,  on 
the  fluctooations  of  the  camp's  finances  closer'n 
anybody.  The  riches  an'  the  poverty  of  Wolfville 
is  sort  o'  exposin'  itse'f  'round  onder  his  nose ;  it's 
a  open  book  to  him  ;  an'  the  knowledge  of  who's 
flat,  or  who's  flush,  is  thrust  onto  him  continyoous. 


Cherokee  Hall  Plays  Poker*  79 

As  I  says,  bein'  some  sentimental  about  them  hard 
ships  of  others,  the  information  costs  Cherokee 
hard  onto  a  diurnal  stack  or  two. 

"  '  Which  you're  too  impulsive  a  whole  lot,'  I 
argues  onct  when  a  profligate  he's  staked,  an'  who 
reports  himse'f  as  jumpin'  sideways  for  grub  pre 
vious,  goes  careerin'  over  to  the  dance  hall  with 
them  alms  he's  wrung,  an'  proceeds  on  a  debauch. 
'You  oughter  not  allow  them  ornery  folks  to  do 
you.  If  you'd  cultivate  the  habit  of  lettin'  every 
gent  go  a-foot  till  he  can  buy  a  hoss,  you'd  clean 
up  for  a  heap  more  at  the  end  of  the  week.  Now 
this  ingrate  whose  hand  you  stiffens  ain't  buyin' 
nothin'  but  nose-paint  tharwith.' 

"  '  Which  the  same  plants  no  regrets  with  me,* 
says  Cherokee,  all  careless  an*  indifferent.  '  If  this 
person  is  sufferin'  for  whiskey  worse'n  he's  sufferin* 
for  bread,  let  him  loose  with  the  whiskey.  The 
money's  his.  When  I  gives  a  gent  a  stake,  thar's 
nothin'  held  back.  I  don't  go  playin'  the  despot 
as  to  how  he  blows  it.  If  this  yere  party  I  relieves 
wants  whiskey  an'  is  buyin'  whiskey,  I  approves 
his  play.  If  I've  a  weakness  at  all,  it's  for  seein' 
folks  fetterless  an'  free.' 

"  While  holdin'  Cherokee's  views  erroneous,  so 
far  as  he  seeks  to  apply  'em  to  paupers  tankin'  up 
on  donations,  still  I  allows  it's  dealin'  faro  which 
has  sp'iled  him  ;  an'  as  you  can't  make  no  gent  over 
new,  I  quits  an'  don't  buck  his  notions  about  dis- 
pensin'  charity  no  more. 

"  Thar's    times   when   this   yere    Cherokee    Hall 


8o  Wolfville  Days* 

caroms  on  a  gent  who's  high-strung  that  a-way,  an' 
won't  take  no  donations;  which  this  yere  sport  may 
be  plenty  needy  to  the  p'int  of  perishin',  too. 
That's  straight ;  thar's  nachers  which  is  that  re 
luctant  about  aid,  they  simply  dies  standin'  before 
they'll  ever  ask. 

"  Once  or  twice  when  Cherokee  crosses  up  with 
one  of  these  yere  sensitif  souls,  an'  who's  in  dis 
tress,  he  never  says  a  word  about  givin'  him  any- 
thin'  ;  he  turns  foxy  an'  caps  him  into  a  little 
poker.  An'  in  the  course  of  an  hour — for  he  has  to 
go  slow  an'  cunnin',  so  he  don't  arouse  the  victim 
to  suspicions  that  he's  bein'  played — Cherokee'll 
disarrange  things  so  he  loses  a  small  stake  to  him. 
When  he's  got  this  distressed  gent's  finances  ree- 
habilitated  some,  he  shoves  out  an*  quits. 

"  '  An'  you  can  put  it  flat  down,'  remarks  Chero 
kee,  who's  sooperstitious,  '  I  never  loses  nothin* 
nor  quits  behind  on  these  yere  benevolences* 
Which  I  oft  observes  that  Providence  comes  back 
of  my  box  before  ever  the  week's  out,  an*  makes 
good.' 

"  '  I  once  knows  a  sport  in  Laredo,'  says  Texas 
Thompson,  to  whom  Cherokee  is  talkin',  '  an*  is  sort 
o'  intimate  with  him.  He's  holdin'  to  somethin' 
like  your  system,  too,  an'  plays  it  right  along. 
Whenever  luck's  ag'in  him  to  a  p'int  where  he's  lost 
half  his  roll,  he  breaks  the  last  half  in  two  an'  gives 
one  part  to  some  charity  racket.  He  tells  me  him- 
se'f  he's  been  addicted  to  this  scheme  so  long  it's 
got  to  be  a  appetite,  an'  that  he  never  fails  to  win 


Cherokee  Hall  Plays  Poker*  81 

himse'f  outen  the  hole  with  what's  left.  You  bet ! 
I  believes  it  ;  I  sees  this  hold-up  do  it.' 

"  I  ain't  none  shore  thar  ain't  some  bottom  to 
them  bluffs  which  Cherokee  an'  Texas  puts  up 
about  Providence  stockin'  a  deck  your  way,  an' 
makin'  good  them  gifts.  At  least,  thar's  times 
when  it  looks  like  it  a  heap.  An'  what  I'll  now 
relate  shows  it. 

"  One  time  Cherokee  has  it  sunk  deep  in  his 
bosom  to  he'p  a  gent  named  Ellis  to  somethin'  like 
a  yellow  stack,  so  he  can  pull  his  freight  for  home. 
He's  come  spraddlin'  into  the  West  full  of  hope, 
an'  allowin'  he's  goin'  to  get  rich  in  a  day.  An' 
now  when  he  finds  how  the  West  is  swift  an'  hard 
to  beat,  he's  homesick  to  death. 

"  But  Ellis  ain't  got  the  dinero.  Now  Cherokee 
likes  him — for  Ellis  is  a  mighty  decent  form  of 
shorthorn — an'  concloodes;  all  by  himse'f,  he'll 
stand  in  on  Ellis'  destinies  an'  fix  'em  up  a  lot. 
Bein'  as  Ellis  is  a  easy  maverick  to  wound,  Chero 
kee  decides  it's  better  to  let  him  think  he  wins  the 
stuff,  an*  not  lacerate  him  by  no  gifts  direct. 
Another  thing,  this  yere  Ellis  tenderfoot  is  plumb 
contrary ;  he's  shore  contrary  to  the  notch  of  bein' 
cap'ble  of  declinin'  alms  absoloote. 

"  To  make  certain  Ellis  is  got  rid  of,  an'  headed 
homeward  happy,  Cherokee  pulls  on  a  little  poker 
with  Ellis ;  an'  he  takes  in  Dan  Boggs  on  the  play, 
makin'  her  three-handed,  that  a-way  for  a  blind. 
Dan  is  informed  of  the  objects  of  the  meetin',  an* 
ain't  allowin'  to  more'n  play  a  dummy  hand  tharin. 


82  Wolfvillc  Days. 

"  This  yere  Ellis  makes  a  tangle  at  first,  wantin 
to  play  faro-bank  ;  but  Cherokee,  who  can't  control 
no  faro  game  like  he  can  poker,  says  *  No ; '  he's 
dead  weary  of  faro,  turnin'  it  day  an'  dark ;  right 
then  he  is  out  for  a  little  stretch  at  poker  as  mere 
relief.  Also  Dan  objects  strenyoous. 

"  *  Which  I  don't  have  no  luck  at  faro-bank,'  says 
Dan.  '  I  does  nothin*  but  lose  for  a  month  ;  I'm 
made  sullen  by  it.  The  only  bet  I  stands  to  win  at 
faro,  for  plumb  four  weeks,  is  a  hundred  dollars  which 
I  puts  on  a  case  queen,  coppered,  over  in  Tucson 
the  other  day.  An'  I  lose  that.  I'm  a  hoss-thief  if, 
exackly  as  the  queen  is  comin'  my  way,  that  locoed 
Tucson  marshal  don't  take  a  slam  at  a  gent  with  his 
six-shooter  an'  miss;  an'  the  bullet,  which  is  dodgin' 
an'  meanderin'  down  the  room,  crosses  the  layout 
between  the  dealer  an'  me,  an'  takes  the  top  chip 
off  my  bet.  An'  with  it  goes  the  copper.  Before 
I  can  restore  them  conditions,  the  queen  falls  to 
lose  ;  an'  not  havin'  no  copper  on  my  bet,  of  course, 
I'm  impoverished  for  that  hundred  as  aforesaid. 
You  knows  the  roole — every  bet  goes  as  it  lays. 
Said  statoote  is  fully  in  force  in  Tucson ;  an* 
declinin*  to  allow  anythin'  for  wild  shootin'  by  that 
fool  marshal,  them  outcasts  corrals  my  chips. 
"  However  do  I  know  thar's  an  accident  ?  "  says  the 
dealer,  as  he  rakes  in  that  queen  bet,  while  I'm 
expoundin'  why  it  should  be  comin'  to  me.  "  Mebby 
she's  an  accident,  an'  mebby  ag'in  that  hom'cide 
who's  bustin'  'round  yere  with  his  gun,  is  in  league 
with  you-all,  an'  shoots  that  copper  off  designful, 


Cherokee  Hall  Plays  Poker.  83 

thinkin'  the  queen's  comin'  the  other  way.  If  acci 
dents  is  allowed  to  control  in  faro-bank,  the  house 
would  never  win  a  chip."  So/  concloodes  Dan, 
;  they  gets  away  with  my  hundred,  invokin'  strict 
rooles  onto  me.  While  I  can't  say  they  ain't  right, 
I  makes  up  my  mind  my  luck's  too  rank  for  faro, 
an'  registers  vows  not  to  put  a  peso  on  another  lay 
out  for  a  year.  As  the  time  limit  ain't  up,  I  can't 
buck  faro-bank  none  ;  but  if  you  an*  Ellis,  Cherokee, 
can  tol'rate  a  little  draw,  I'm  your  onmurmurin' 
dupe/ 

"  As  I  relates  prior,  the  play  is  to  let  Ellis  win  a 
home-stake  an'  quit.  At  last  they  begins,  Ellis  seein' 
thar's  no  chance  for  faro-bank.  Dan  plays  but  little  ; 
usual,  he  merely  picks  up  his  kyards,  cusses  a  lot, 
an'  passes  out.  Now  an'  then,  when  it's  his  ante,  or 
Cherokee  stays  out  for  the  looks  of  the  thing,  Dan 
goes  to  the  front  an'  sweetens  Ellis  for  a  handful 
of  chips. 

"  Little  by  little,  by  layin'  down  good  hands, 
breakin*  pa'rs  before  a  draw,  an'  gen'rally  carryin' 
on  tail-first  an'  scand'lous,  Cherokee  an'  Dan  is  get- 
tin'  a  few  layers  of  fat  on  Ellis'  ribs.  But  they  has 
to  lay  low  to  do  it.  Oh  !  he'd  kick  over  the  table 
in  a  second  if  he  even  smells  the  play. 

"  Now  yere's  where  Providence  makes  its  deboo. 
It  happens  while  these  charities  is  proceedin',  a 
avaricious  gent — a  stranger  within  our  gates,  he  is 
— after  regyardin'  the  game  awhile,  takes  to  deemin' 
it  easy.  The  avaricious  gent  wants  in  ;  an'  as  Ellis, 
who's  a  heap  elated  at  his  luck  an'  is  already  talkin' 


84  Wolfville  Days* 

of  the  killin'  he's  makin',  says  *  Yes,'  an'  as  Dan  an* 
Cherokee  can't  say  '  No  '  without  bein*  onp'lite,  the 
avaricious  gent  butts  in.  It  all  disturbs  Cherokee, 
who's  a  nervous  sharp  ;  an'  when  he  sees  how  greedy 
the  avaricious  gent  is  for  what  he  deems  to  be  a 
shore  thing,  he  concloodes  to  drop  him  plenty 
hard. 

"  It's  four-hand  poker  now,  an'  the  game  wags  on 
for  a  dozen  hands.  Dan  is  in  hard  luck;  Chero 
kee  on  his  part  gets  driven  out  each  hand  ;  an'  Ellis 
an'  the  avaricious  gent  is  doin'  what  little  winnin's 
bein'  done,  between  'em.  It's  evident  by  this  time, 
too,  the  avaricious  gent's  layin'  for  Cherokee.  This 
oninstructed  person  looks  on  Cherokee  as  both  imbe 
cile  an'  onlucky  to  boot. 

"  The  avaricious  gent  gets  action  suddener  than 
he  thinks.  It's  a  jack  pot.  She  goes  by  Ellis  an* 
Dan ;  then  Cherokee  breaks  her  for  the  limit,  two 
bloo  chips,  the  par  value  whereof  is  ten  dollars. 

"  '  You  breaks  for  ten  ? '  says  the  avaricious  gent, 
who's  on  Cherokee's  left  an'  has  the  last  say  ;  'well, 
I  sees  the  break  an'  lifts  it  the  limit.'  An'  the 
avaricious  gent  puts  up  four  bloos.  Ellis  an'  Dan, 
holdin'  nothin'  an'  gettin'  crafty,  ducks. 

"  When  the  avaricious  gent  puts  up  his  four  bloo 
beans,  Cherokee  does  somethin'  no  one  ever  sees 
him  do  before.  He  gets  quer'lous  an'  complainin', 
an'  begins  to  fuss  a  lot  over  his  bad  luck. 

"  '  What  did  you-all  come  in  for? '  he  says  to  the 
avaricious  gent,  as  peevish  as  a  sick  infant.  'You 
sees  me  settin'  yere  in  the  muddiest  of  luck ;  can't  you 


Cherokee  Hall  Plays  Poker*  85 

a-bear  to  let  me  win  a  pot  ?  You  ain't  got  no  hand 
to  come  in  on  neither,  an'  I'll  bet  on  it.  You  jest 
nacherally  stacks  in,  relyin'  on  bluffin'  me,  or  out- 
luckin'  me  on  the  draw.  Well,  you  can't  bluff ;  I'll 
see  this  yere  through,'  says  Cherokee,  puttin'  up  two 
more  sky-colored  beans  an'  actin'  like  he's  gettin' 
heated,  '  if  it  takes  my  last  chip.  As  I  do,  however, 
jest  to  onmask  you  an'  show  my  friends,  as  I  says, 
that  you  ain't  got  a  thing,  I'll  wager  you  two  on 
the  side,  right  now,  that  the  pa'r  of  jacks  I  breaks 
on,  is  bigger  than  the  hand  on  which  you  comes  in 
an'  makes  that  two-button  tilt.'  As  he  says  this, 
Cherokee  regyards  the  avaricious  gent  like  he's 
plumb  disgusted. 

"  It  turns  out,  when  Cherokee  makes  this  yere 
long  an'  fretful  break,  the  avaricious  gent's  holdin* 
a  brace  of  kings.  He's  delighted  with  Cherokee's 
uproar,  an'  thinks  how  soft,  an'  what  a  case  of  open 
work,  he  is. 

"  *  You  offers  two  bloos  I  can't  beat  a  pa'r  of 
jacks  ?  '  says  the  avaricious  gent.  Which  he's  plumb 
wolf,  an'  out  for  every  drop  of  blood  ! 

" '  That's  what  I  says,'  replies  Cherokee,  some 
sullen. 

"  *  I  goes  you,'  says  the  avaricious  gent,  showin'  a 
pa'r  of  kings. 

"  '  Thar  you  be,'  snarls  Cherokee,  with  a  howl 
like  a  sore-head  dog,  a-chuckin'  the  avaricious  gent 
a  couple  of  chips ;  '  thar  you  go  ag'in  !  I  can't 
beat  nothin' ;  which  I  couldn't  beat  a  drum  !  ' 

"  The   avaricious  gent    c'llects    them    two   azure 


86  Wolfville  Days. 

bones ;  after  which  he  diskyards  three,  drawin'  to 
his  two  kings,  an'  sets  back  to  win  the  main  pot. 
He  shore  concloodes  it's  a  red  letter  round-up  for 
him. 

"  '  I  reckons  now  that  I  knows  what  you  has/  says 
Cherokee,  displayin*  a  ace  in  a  foolish  way,  *  I  up 
holds  this  yere  ace  on  the  side  an'  asks  for  two 
kyards.' 

"  The  avaricious  gent  adds  a  third  king  to  his  list 
an'  feels  like  sunny  weather.  Cherokee  picks  up  his 
hand  after  the  draw,  an'  the  avaricious  gent,  who's 
viewin'  him  sharp,  notes  that  he  looks  a  heap 
morbid. 

"  All  at  once  Cherokee  braces  up  mighty  savage, 
like  he's  ugly  an'  desp'rate  about  his  bad  luck. 

"  '  If  this  yere  limit  was  any  size  at  all,  a  blooded 
gent  might  stand  some  show.  Which  I'd  bluff  you 
outen  your  moccasins  if  I  wasn't  reepressed  by  a 
limit  whereof  a  child  should  be  ashamed.  I  shore 
don't  know  how  I  mislays  my  se'f-respect  to  sech  a 
pitch  as  to  go  settin'  into  these  yere  paltry  plays.' 

"  *  Which  you  see  yere  a  lot !  '  says  the  avaricious 
gent,  shakin'  with  delight,  an'  lookin'  at  them  three 
crowned  heads  he  holds  ;  'don't  howl  all  night  about 
a  wrong  what's  so  easy  to  rectify.  We  removes  the 
limits,  an'  you  can  spread  your  pinions  an'  soar  to 
any  altitoode  you  please.' 

"  Cherokee  looks  at  him  hateful  as  a  murderer  ;  he 
seems  like  he's  bein'  goaded.  Then,  like  he's  made 
up  his  mind  to  die  right  yere,  Cherokee  turns  in 
without  no  more  words  an'  bets  five  hundred  dollars. 


Cherokee  Hall  Plays  Poker*  87 

It  makes  Ellis,  who's  new  an*  plumb  poor  that  a-way, 
sort  o'  draw  a  long  breath. 

"  '  Which  you'll  climb  some  for  this  pot  if  you 
gets  it,'  says  Cherokee,  after  his  money's  up  ;  an'  his 
tones  is  shore  resentful. 

"The  avaricious  gent  thinks  it's  a  bluff.  He 
deems  them  three  kings  good.  Cherokee  most 
likely  don't  better  by  the  draw.  If  he  does,  it's 
nothin'  worse  than  aces  up,  or  a  triangle  of  jacks. 
That's  the  way  this  sordid  sport  lines  up  Cherokee's 
hand. 

"  *  Merely  to  show  you  the  error  of  your  ways,' 
he  remarks,  *  an'  to  teach  you  to  lead  a  happier  an' 
a  better  life,  I  sees  your  five  hundred  an'  raises  her 
back  the  same.'  An*  the  avaricious  gent  counts 
off  a  thousand  dollars.  *  Thar,'  he  says  when  it's 
up,  '  now  go  as  far  as  you  like.  Make  it  a  ceilin' 
play  if  the  sperit  moves  you.' 

" '  I  sees  it  an'  lifts  her  for  five  hundred  more,' 
retorts  Cherokee.  An'  he  shoves  his  dust  to  the 
center. 

"Cherokee's  peevishness  is  gone,  an'  his  fault- 
findin'  is  over.  He's  turned  as  confident  an'  easy 
a3  a  old  shoe. 

"  It  strikes  the  avaricious  gent  as  alarmin',  this 
quick  switch  in  the  way  Cherokee  feels.  It's  cl'ar, 
as  one  looks  in  his  face,  that  them  trio  of  kings 
ain't  no  sech  monstrosities  as  they  was.  He  ain't 
half  so  shore  they  wins.  After  lookin'  a  while  he 
says,  an'  his  tones  shows  he's  plumb  doobious  : 

"  '  That  last  raise  over-sizes  me.' 


88  Wolfvillc  Days. 

"  '  That's  it ! '  groans  Cherokee,  like  his  contempt 
for  all  mankind  is  comin'  back.  *  By  the  time  I 
gets  a  decent  hand  every  sport  at  the  table's  broke. 
What  show  do  I  have  !  However,  I  pinches  down 
to  meet  your  poverty.  Put  up  what  stuff  you  has.' 

"  The  avaricious  gent  slowly  gets  up  his  last 
peso;  he's  out  on  a  limb,  an'  he  somehow  begins  to 
feel  it.  When  the  money's  up,  Cherokee  throws 
down  three  aces  an'  a  pa'r  of  nines,  an*  rakes  the 
dust. 

" '  Next  time/  says  Cherokee,  '  don't  come 
fomentin'  'round  poker  games  which  is  strangers  to 
you  complete.  Moreover,  don't  let  a  gent  talk 
you  into  fal'cies  touchin'  his  hand.  Which  I'm  the 
proud  proprietor  of  them  three  aces  when  I  breaks 
the  pot.  You-all  lose  this  time  ;  but  if  you'll  only 
paste  them  dogmas  I  gives  you  in  your  sombrero,  an' 
read  'em  over  from  time  to  time,  you'll  notice 
they  flows  a  profit.  We  three, '  concloodes  Cherokee, 
turnin'  ag'in  to  Dan  an'  Ellis,  '  will  now  resoome 
our  wrong-doin'  at  the  p'int  where  this  yere  former 
plootocrat  interrupts.  A  benign  Providence  has 
fixed  me  plenty  strong.  Wherefore,  if  either  of 
you  sports  should  tap  me  for  a  handful  of  hundreds, 
them  veins  of  mine  will  stand  the  drain.  Dan,  it's 
your  deal/  " 


CHAPTER  VTIL 
The  Treachery  of  Curly  Ben. 

"YERE!  you  black  boy,  Tom!"  and  the  Old 
Cattleman's  voice  rose  loudly  as  he  commanded  the 
approach  of  that  buoyant  servitor,  who  supervised 
his  master's  destinies,  and  performed  in  the 
triangular  role  of  valet,  guardian  and  friend. 
"  Yere,  you ;  go  to  the  barkeep  of  this  tavern  an' 
tell  him  to  frame  me  up  a  pitcher  of  that  peach 
brandy  an*  honey  the  way  I  shows  him  how. 
An'  when  he's  got  her  organized,  bring  it  out  to 
us  with  two  glasses  by  the  fire.  You-all  ain't  filin* 
no  objections  to  a  drink,  be  you  ?  "  This  last  was 
to  me.  "As  for  me,  personal,"  he  continued, 
"  you  can  put  down  a  bet  I'm  as  dry  as  a  covered 
bridge." 

I  readily  assented  to  peach  and  honey.  I  would 
agree  to  raw  whiskey  if  it  were  needed  to  appease 
him  and  permit  me  to  remain  in  his  graces. 

"  Thar's  one  thing,  one  redeemin'  thing  I  might 
say,  about  the  East,"  he  went  on,  when  the  peach 
and  honey  appeared,  "  an'  the  same  claims  my  re 
spects  entire;  that's  its  nose-paint.  Which  we 
shorely  suffers  in  the  Southwest  from  beverages  of 
the  most  ornery  kind." 


9°  "Wolfville  Days. 

"  There's  a  word  I've  wanted  to  ask  you  about 
more  than  once,"  I  said.  "  What  do  you  mean  by 
'  ornery,'  and  where  do  you  get  it  ?  " 

"  Where  do  I  get  it  ?  "  he  responded,  with  a  tinge 
of  scorn.  "  Where  do  I  rope  onto  any  word  ?  I 
jest  nacherally  reaches  out  an'  acquires  it  a  whole 
lot,  like  I  do  the  rest  of  the  language  I  employs. 
As  for  what  it  means,  I  would  have  allowed  that 
any  gent  who  escapes  bein'  as  weak-minded  as 
Thompson's  colt — an'  that  cayouse  is  that  imbecile 
he  used  to  swim  a  river  to  get  a  drink — would 
hesitate  with  shame  to  ask  sech  questions. 

" '  Ornery '  is  a  word  the  meanin*  whereof  is 
goin'  to  depend  a  heap  on  what  you  brands  with 
it."  This  was  said  like  an  oracle.  "  Also,  the 
same  means  more  or  less,  accordin'  to  who-all  puts 
the  word  in  play.  I  remembers  a  mighty  decent 
sort  of  sport,  old  Cape  Willingham  it  is;  an'  yet 
Dan  Boggs  is  forever  referrin*  to  old  Cape  as 
'  ornery.'  An*  I  reckon  Dan  thinks  he  is.  Which 
the  trouble  with  Cape,  from  Dan's  standp'int,  is 
this :  Cape  is  one  of  these  yere  precise  parties, 
acc'rate  as  to  all  he  does,  an'  plenty  partic'lar  about 
his  looks.  An  Osage  buck,  paintin'  for  a  dance, 
wouldn't  worry  more  over  his  feachers,  an'  the  way 
the  ocher  should  be  streaked  on. 

"  Now  this  yere  Cape  is  shy  an  eye,  where  an 
Apache  pokes  it  out  with  a  lance,  back  in  Cochise's 
time ;  an',  as  he  regyards  his  countenance  as 
seem  in'  over  rocky,  bein'  redooced  to  one  eye  as  I 
relates,  he  sends  East  an'  gets  a  glass  eye.  This 


The  Treachery  of  Curly  Ben.  91 

ain't  where  Cape's  technical'ties  about  his  looks 
trails  in,  however ;  an',  if  he  had  paused  thar  in  his 
reehabilitations,  Boggs  allers  put  it  up  he'd  a-found 
no  fault.  But  Cape  notices  that  about  tenth  drink 
time  his  shore-enough  eye  begins  for  to  show  up 
bloodshot,  an'  is  a  bad  mate  for  the  glass  eye,  the 
same  bein'  onaffected  by  drink.  So  what  does 
Cape  do  but  have  a  bloodshot  eye  made,  an'  takes 
to  packin'  the  same  on  his  person  constant.  As 
Cape  drinks  his  forty  drops  all  commodious,  he 
sort  o'  keeps  tabs  on  himse'f  in  the  lookin'  glass 
back  of  the  bar  ;  an'  when  the  good  eye  commences 
to  turn  red  with  them  libations  he's  countin'  into 
the  corral,  he  ups  an'  shifts  his  bresh  ;  digs  out  the 
white  eye  an'  plants  the  drunken  eye  in  the  place. 

"  Shore  !  none  of  us  cares  except  Dan  Boggs  ;  but 
Dan  feels  it  to  that  extent,  it's  all  Colonel  Sterett 
an'  Doc  Peets  an*  Old  Man  Enright  can  do,  added 
to  Dan's  bein'  by  nacher  a  born  gent  that  a-way,  to 
keep  Dan  from  mentionin*  it  to  old  Cape. 

"  *  A  gent  who  comes  from  a  good  fam'ly,  like 
you-all,'  says  Old  Man  Enright  to  Dan,  sort  o' 
soothin'  of  him,  '  oughter  be  removed  above  makin' 
comments  on  pore  old  Cape  shiftin'  his  optics. 
Troo  !  it's  a  weakness,  but  where  is  the  sport  who 
hasn't  weaknesses  likewise.  Which  you-all  is  a 
mighty  sight  to  one  side  of  bein'  perfect  yourse'f, 
Dan,  an'  yet  we  don't  go  'round  breakin'  the  infor 
mation  off  in  you  every  time  you  makes  a  queer 
play.  An'  you  must  b'ar  with  Cape,  an'  them 
caprices  of  his/ 


92  Wolfvillc  Days. 

"  '  I  ain't  denyin'  nothin','  declares  Dan.  '  I'm 
the  last  longhorn  in  Wolfville  to  be  revilin'  old 
Cape,  an'  refoosin'  him  his  plain  American  right  to 
go  pirootin*  'round  among  his  eyes  as  suits  his 
taste.  But  I'm  a  mighty  nervous  man  that  a-way, 
an'  Cape  knows,  or  oughter  know,  how,  as  I  states, 
I'm  nacherally  all  onstrung,  an'  that  his  carryin's  on 
with  them  eyes  gives  me  the  fantods.  Onder  all 
the  circumstances,  I  claims  his  conduct  is  ornery, 
an'  not  what  a  invalid  like  me  has  a  right  to  expect/ 

"  No  ;  Dan  never  says  nothin'  to  Cape;  or  does 
anythin'  'cept  talk  to  Enright  an'  the  rest  of  us 
about  how  he  can't  stand  Cape  shiftin'  them  eyes. 
An'  it  ain't  affectation  on  the  part  of  Dan  ;  he 
shorely  feels  them  shifts.  Many  a  time,  when  it's 
got  to  be  red  eye  time  with  Cape,  an'  as  the  latter 
is  scroop'lously  makin'  said  transfers,  have  I  beheld 
Dan  arise  in  silent  agony,  an'  go  to  bite  hunks  outen 
a  pine  shelf  that  is  built  on  the  Red  Light  wall. 

"  '  Which  that  ornery  Cape,'  says  Dan,  as  he  picks 
the  splinters  from  his  mouth  after  sech  exercises, 
'would  drive  me  as  locoed  as  a  coyote  if  I  don't 
take  refooge  in  some  sech  play  like  that.' 

"  But,  as  I  su'gests  about  this  term  '  ornery  ; '  it 
depends  a  lot  on  who  uses  it,  an'  what  for.  Now  Dan 
never  refers  to  old  Cape  except  as  '  ornery  ; '  while 
Enright  an*  the  rest  of  us  sees  nothin'  from  soda  to 
hock  in  Cape,  doorin'  them  few  months  he  mingles 
with  us,  which  merits  sech  obloquys. 

"  No  ;  ornery  is  a  word  that  means  what  it  says 
an'  is  shore  deescriptif.  Coyotes  is  ornery,  sheep  is 


The  Treachery  of  Curly  Ben,  93 

ornery ;  an*  them  low-flung  hoomans  who  herds 
sheep  is  ornery,  speshul.  Of  course,  the  term  has 
misapplications ;  as  an  extreme  case,  I've  even 
heard  ign'rant  tenderfeet  who  alloodes  to  the  whole 
West  as  '  ornery.'  But  them  folks  is  too  debased 
an*  too  darkened  to  demand  comments." 

"You  are  very  loyal  to  the  West,"  I  remarked. 

"  Which  I  shorely  oughter  be,"  retorted  the  old 
gentleman.  "  The  West  has  been  some  loyal  to 
me.  Troo  !  it  stands  to  reason  that  a  party  fresh 
from  the  East,  where  the  horns  has  been  knocked 
offen  everythin'  for  two  or  three  hundred  years, 
an'  conditions  gen'ral  is  as  soft  as  a  goose-ha'r  pil 
low,  is  goin'  to  notice  some  turgid  changes  when  he 
lands  in  Arizona.  But  a  shorthorn,  that  a-way, 
should  reserve  his  jedgment  till  he  gets  acquainted, 
or  gets  lynched,  or  otherwise  experiences  the  West 
in  its  troo  colors.  While  Arizona,  for  speciment, 
don't  go  up  an'  put  her  arms  about  the  neck  of 
every  towerist  that  comes  chargin'  into  camp,  her 
failure  to  perform  said  rites  arises  rather  from 
dignity  than  hauteur.  Arizona  don't  put  on  dog  ; 
but  she  has  her  se'f-respectin*  ways,  an'  stands  a  pat 
hand  on  towerists. 

"  If  I  was  called  on  to  lay  out  a  system  to  guide 
a  tenderfoot  who  is  considerin'  on  makin'  Arizona 
his  home-camp,  I'd  advise  him  to  make  his  deboo 
in  that  territory  in  a  sperit  of  ca'm  an*  silent  se'f- 
reliance.  Sech  a  gent  might  reside  in  Wolfville, 
say  three  months.  He  might  meet  her  citizens, 
buck  her  faro-banks,  drink  her  nose-paint,  shake  a 


94  Wolfville  Days. 

\ 

hilarious  hoof  in  her  hurdy  gurdies,  ask  for  his  let. 
ters,  or  change  in  whatever  sums  seems  meet  to  him 
at  the  New  York  Store  for  shirts.  Also,  he  might 
come  buttin'  along  into  the  O.  K.  Restauraw  three 
times  a  day  with  the  balance  of  the  band,  an'  Missis 
Rucker  would  shorely  turn  her  grub-game  for  him, 
for  the  limit  if  he  so  pleased.  But  still,  most  likely 
every  gent  in  camp  would  maintain  doorin'  his 
novitiate  a  decent  distance  with  this  yere  stranger; 
they  wouldn't  onbuckle  an'  be  drunk  with  him  free 
an*  social  like,  an*  with  the  bridle  off,  like  pards 
who  has  crossed  the  plains  together  an'  seen  ex 
tremes.  All  this,  with  a  chill  onto  it,  a  tenderfoot 
would  find  himse'f  ag'inst  for  the  first  few  months 
in  Wolfville. 

"  An'  yet,  my  steer  to  him  would  be  not  to  get 
discouraged.  The  camp's  sizin'  him  up ;  that's  all. 
If  he  perseveres,  ca'm  an'  c'llected  like  I  states, 
along  the  trail  of  his  destiny,  he'll  shore  come  win 
ner  on  the  deal.  At  the  end  of  three  months,  or 
mebby  in  onusual  cases  four  months,  jest  as  this  yere 
maverick  is  goin'  into  the  dance  hall,  or  mebby  the 
Red  Light,  some  gent  will  chunk  him  one  in  the 
back  with  his  shet  fist  an'  say, '  How  be  you  ?  You 
double-dealin',  cattle-stealin',  foogitive  son  of  a  mur- 
dererin*  hoss-thief,  how  be  you?' 

"  Now,  right  thar  is  whar  this  yere  shorthorn 
wants  to  maintain  his  presence  of  mind.  He  don't 
want  to  go  makin*  no  vain  plays  for  his  six-shooter, 
or  indulge  in  no  sour  ranikaboo  retorts.  That  gent 
likes  him.  With  Wolfville  social  conditions,  this 


The  Treachery  of  Curly  Ben*  95 

yere  greetirT  is  what  you  sports  who  comes  from 
the  far  No'th  calls  '  the  beginnin'  of  the  thaw.' 
The  ice  is  breakin'  up ;  an'  if  our  candidate  sets  in 
his  saddle  steady  an'  with  wisdom  at  this  back- 
thumpin',  name-callin'  epock,  an'  don't  take  to 
millin'  'round  for  trouble,  in  two  minutes  him  an* 
that  gregar'ous  gent  who's  accosted  him  is  drinkin' 
an'  fraternizin'  together  like  two  stage  hold-ups  in 
a  strange  camp.  The  West  ain't  ornery ;  she's  sim 
ply  reserved  a  whole  lot. 

"  Mighty  likely  now,"  continued  my  friend,  fol 
lowing  a  profound  pause  which  was  comfortably 
filled  with  peach  and  honey  ;  "  it's  mighty  likely 
now,  comin*  down  to  folks,  that  the  most  ornery 
party  I  ever  knows  is  Curly  Ben.  This  yere  Ben  is 
killed,  final ;  downed  by  old  Captain  Moon.  Thar's 
a  strange  circumstance  attending  as  the  papers  say, 
the  obliteration  of  this  Curly  Ben,  an'  it  makes  a 
heap  of  an  impression  on  me  at  the  time.  It  shows 
how  the  instinct  to  do  things,  that  a  gent  is  allers 
carryin*  'round  in  his  mind,  gets  sort  o'  located  in 
his  nerves  mebby,  an'  he'll  do  'em  without  his  in 
tellects  ridin'  herd  on  the  play — do  'em  like  Curly 
Ben  does,  after  his  light  is  out  complete. 

"This  yere  is  what  I'm  trailin'  up  to:  When 
Captain  Moon  fetches  Curly  Ben  that  time,  Curly 
is  playin*  kyards.  He's  jest  dealin',  when,  onbe- 
known  to  him,  Moon  comes  Injunin*  up  from  the 
r'ar  surreptitious,  an*  drills  Curly  Ben  through  the 
head  ;  an'  the  bullet  bein'  a  '45  Colt's — for  Moon 
ain't  toyin*  with  Curly  an*  means  business — goes 


96  Wolfvillc  Days. 

plumb  through  an'  emerges  from  onder  Curly  Ben's 
off  eye.  For  that  matter,  it  breaks  the  arm  of  a 
party  who's  playin'  opp'site  to  Curly,  an*  who  is 
skinnin'  his  pasteboards  at  the  time,  thinkin*  noth- 
in*  of  war.  Which  the  queer  part  is  this:  Curly,  as 
I  states — an'  he  never  knows  what  hits  him,  an*  is 
as  dead  as  Santa  Anna  in  a  moment — is  dealin'  the 
kyards.  He's  got  the  deck  in  his  hands.  An  yet, 
when  the  public  picks  Curly  off  the  floor,  he's 
pulled  his  two  guns,  an'  has  got  one  cocked.  Now 
what  do  you-all  deem  of  that  for  the  workin'  of  a 
left-over  impulse  when  a  gent  is  dead  ? 

"  But,  as  I  remarks  yeretofore,  Curly  Ben  is  the 
most  ornery  person  I  ever  overtakes,  an*  the  feelin's 
of  the  camp  is  in  nowise  laid  waste  when  Moon 
adds  him  to  the  list  that  time  in  the  Red  Light 
bar.  It's  this  a-way  : 

"  It's  about  a  month  before,  when  Captain  Moon 
an'  his  nephy,  with  two  8-mule  teams  and  four  big 
three-an'-a-half  Bain  wagons,  two  lead  an'  two  trail 
they  be,  comes  freightin'  out  of  Silver  City  with 
their  eyes  on  Wolfville.  It's  the  fourth  night  out, 
an'  they're  camped  near  a  Injun  agency.  About 
midnight  a  half  dozen  of  the  bucks  comes  scoutin* 
'round  their  camp,  allowin'  to  a  moral  certainty 
they'll  see  what's  loose  an'  little  enough  for  'em  to 
pull.  The  aborigines  makes  the  error  of  goin*  up 
the  wind  from  Moon's  mules,  which  is  grazin'  about 
with  hobbles  on,  an'  them  sagacious  anamiles  actoo- 
ally  has  fits.  It's  a  fact,  if  you  want  to  see  a  mule 
go  plumb  into  the  air  an'  remain,  jest  let  him  get  a 


The  Treachery  of  Curly  Ben*  97 

good,  ample,  onmistakable  smell  of  a  Injun !  It 
simply  onhinges  his  reason ;  he  ain't  no  more  re 
sponsible  than  a  cimmaron  sheep.  No,  it  ain't 
that  the  savage  is  out  to  do  anything  oncommon 
to  the  mule  ;  it's  merely  one  of  the  mule's  illoosions, 
as  I've  told  you  once  before.  Jest  the  same,  if 
them  Injuns  is  comin'  to  braid  his  tail  an'  braid 
it  tight,  that  mule  couldn't  feel  more  frantic. 

"  When  these  yere  faithful  mules. takes  to  surgin* 
about  the  scene  on  two  feet,  Moon's  nephy  grabs  a 
Winchester  an*  pumps  a  load  or  so  into  the  dark 
ness  for  gen'ral  results.  An*  he  has  a  heap  of  luck. 
He  shorely  stops  one  of  them  Apaches  in  his  lopin' 
up  an*  down  the  land  for  good  an'  all. 

"In  less  than  no  time  the  whole  tribe  is  down  on 
Captain  Moon  an*  his  nephy,  demandin'  blood. 
Thar's  plenty  of  some  sorts  of  wisdom  about  a  sav 
age,  an'  these  yere  Apaches  ain't  runnin'  right  in 
on  Moon  an'  his  relatif  neither.  They  was  per- 
feckly  familiar  with  the  accoomulation  of  cartridges 
in  a  Winchester,  an'  tharfore  goes  about  the  stirrin* 
up  of  Moon  an'  that  nephy  plumb  wary. 

"  Moon  an'  the  boy  goes  in  between  the  wagons, 
blazin'  an'  bangin'  away  at  whatever  moves  or 
makes  a  noise ;  an*  as  they've  been  all  through 
sech  festivals  before,  they  regyards  their  final 
chances  to  be  as  good  as  an  even  break,  or  better. 

"  While  them  Apaches  is  dodgin'  about  among 
the  rocks,  an*  howlin'  contempt,  an'  passin'  resoloo- 
tions  of  revenge  touchin'  the  two  Moons,  the  Injun 
agent  comes  troopin'  along.  He  seeks  to  round-up 


,  . 
his  s; 


"Wolfville  Days* 


u's  savages  an*  herd  'em  back  to  the  agency.  The 
Apaches,  on  their  side,  is  demandin'  the  capture  of 
the  nephy  Moon  for  sp'ilin'  one  of  their  young 
men. 

"The  agent  is  a  prairie  dog  jest  out  from  the 
East,  an*  don't  know  half  as  much  about  what's 
goin'  on  inside  of  a  Apache  as  a  horned  toad.  He 
comes  down  to  the  aige  of  hostil'ties,  as  you-all 
might  call  it,  an*  makes  Moon  an'  his  Winchester 
workin'  nephy  a  speech.  He  addresses  'em  a  whole 
lot  on  the  enormity  of  downin'  Apaches  who  goes 
prowlin'  about  an*  scarin'  up  your  mules  at  mid 
night,  in  what  this  yere  witless  agent  calls  a  'motif 
of  childish  cur'osity ; '  an'  he  winds  up  the  powwow 
with  demandin'  the  surrender  of  the  'hom'cide.' 

"  '  Surrender  nothin'  ! '  says  Captain  Moon.  *  You 
tell  your  Injuns  to  line  out  for  their  camp  ;  an* 
don't  you  yourse'f  get  too  zealous  neither  an'  come 
too  clost,  or  as  shore  as  I  casts  my  first  vote  for 
Matty  Van  Buren,  I'll  plug  you  plumb  center.' 

"  But  the  nephy,  he  thinks  different.  In  spite  of 
Captain  Moon's  protests,  he  gives  himse'f  up  to  the 
agent  on  the  promise  of  protection. 

"  'You're  gone,  lad,'  says  Moon,  when  the  nephy 
insists  on  yieldin' ;  *  you  won't  last  as  long  as  a 
pint  of  whiskey  in  a  five-hand  poker  game.' 

"  But  this  yere  young  Moon  is  obdurate  an*  goes 
over  an'  gives  himse'f  to  the  agent,  who  puts  it  up 
he'll  send  him  to  Prescott  to  be  tried  in  co't  for 
beefin'  the  mule-thief  Apache  that  a-way. 

"  Shore  !  it  turns  out  jest  as  Captain  Moon  says. 


The  Treachery  of  Curly  Ben*  99 

Before  they'd  gone  a  half  mile,  them  wards  of  the 
gov'ment,  as  I  once  hears  a  big  chief  from  Wash- 
in'ton  call  'em,  takes  the  nephy  from  this  yere 
fallacious  agent  an'  by  fourth  drink  time  that 
mornin',  or  when  it's  been  sun-up  three  hours,  that 
nephy  is  nothin'  but  a  mem'ry. 

"  How  do  they  kill  him  ?  In  a  fashion  which, 
from  the  coigne  your  Apache  views  things,  does 
'em  proud.  That  nephy  is  immolated  as  follows: 
They  ropes  him  out,  wrist  an'  ankle,  with  four 
lariats  ;  pegs  him  out  like  he's  a  hide  they're  goin* 
to  dry.  Thar's  a  big  ant  hill  close  at  hand ;  it's 
with  reference  to  this  yere  ant  colony  that  the 
nephy  is  staked  out.  In  three  hours  from  the  time 
them  ants  gets  the  word  from  the  Apaches,  they've 
done  eat  the  nephy  up,  an'  the  last  vestitch  of  him 
plumb  disappears  with  the  last  ant,  as  the  latter  re- 
soomes  his  labors  onder  the  earth. 

"  Why,  shore  !  these  yere  ants'll  eat  folks.  They 
regyards  sech  reepasts  as  festivals,  an'  seasons  of 
reelaxatlon  from  the  sterner  dooties  of  a  ant.  I 
recalls  once  how  we  loses  Locoed  Charlie,  which 
demented  party  I  b'lieve  I  mentions  to  you  prior. 
This  yere  Charlie  takes  a  day  off  from  where  he's 
workin' — at  least  he  calls  it  labor — at  the  stage 
corrals,  an'  goes  curvin'  over  to  Red  Dog.  Charlie 
tanks  up  on  the  whiskey  of  that  hamlet,  compared 
to  which  the  worst  nose-paint  ever  sold  in  Wolfville 
is  nectar.  They  palms  off  mebby  it's  a  quart  of 
this  jooce  on  Charlie,  an'  then  he  p'ints  out  for 
Wolfville. 


ioo  Wolfville  Days* 

"  That's  the  last  of  the  pore  drunkard.  His  pony 
is  nickerin'  about  the  corral  gates,  pleadin'  with  the 
mules  inside  to  open  'em,  in  the  mornin',  but  no 
sign  or  smoke  of  Locoed  Charlie.  An'  he  never 
does  show  up  no  more. 

"  If  it's  Enright  or  Cherokee  Hall,  or  any  val- 
yooed  citizen,  thar  would  have  issooed  forth  a  war 
party,  an'  Red  Dog  would  have  been  sacked  an' 
burned  but  what  the  missin'  gent  would  have  been 
turned  out.  But  it's  different  about  Locoed 
Charlie.  He  hadn't  that  hold  on  the  pop'lar  heart ; 
didn't  fill  sech  a  place  in  the  gen'ral  eye;  an*  so, 
barrin'  a  word  or  two  of  wonder,  over  their  drinks 
at  the  Red  Light,  I  don't  reckon  now  the  Wolfville 
folks  disturbs  themse'fs  partic'lar  about  the  camp 
bein*  shy  Charlie. 

44  It's  the  second  day  when  a  teamster,  trackin* 
over  from  Red  Dog,  developes  what's  left  of  Locoed 
Charlie.  He  falls  off  his  hoss,  with  that  load  of 
Red  Dog  whiskey,  an*  every  notion  or  idee  or  sen 
sation  absolootely  effaced.  An'  where  Charlie 
loses  is,  he  falls  by  a  ant  hill.  Yes  ;  they  shorely 
takes  Charlie  in.  Thar's  nothin'  left  of  him  when 
the  teamster  locates  the  remainder,  but  his  clothes, 
his  spurs  an'  his  'natomy.  The  r'ar  gyard  of  them 
ants  has  long  since  retired  with  the  final  fragments 
of  Locoed  Charlie. 

"  You-all  might  o'  seen  the  story.  Colonel  Ster- 
ett  writes  it  up  in  the  Coyote,  an'  heads  it,  '  Hunger 
is  a  Terrible  Thing/  This  sot  Charlie  comin'  to 
his  death  that  a-way  puts  a  awful  scare  over  Hug- 


The  Treachery  of  Curly  Ben.  101 

gins  an'  Old  Monte.  It  reforms  'em  for  more'n 
two  hours.  Huggins,  who  is  allers  frontin*  up  as 
one  who  possesses  public  sperit,  tries  to  look  plumb 
dignified  about  it,  an*  remarks  to  DaveTutt  in  the 
New  York  Store  as  how  he  thinks  we  oughter 
throw  in  around  an'  build  a  monument  to  Locoed 
Charlie.  Dave  allows  that,  while  he's  with  Hug- 
gins  in  them  projecks,  he  wants  to  add  a  monument 
to  the  ants.  The  founders  of  the  scheme  sort  o* 
splittin'  at  the  go-in  that  a-way,  it  don't  get  no 
further,  an*  the  monument  to  Locoed  Charlie,  as 
a  enterprise,  bogs  down.  But  to  continyoo  on 
the  trail  of  Captain  Moon. 

"  Moon  comes  rumblin'  into  Wolfville,  over-doo 
mebby  it's  two  weeks,  bringin'  both  teams.  Thar- 
upon  he  relates  them  outrages.  Thar's  but  one 
thought ;  that  agent  has  lived  too  long. 

"'If  he  was  the  usual  common  form  of  felon,' 
says  Enright,  Undoubted — for  it  would  be  their 
dooty — the  vig'lance  committee  local  to  them  parts 
would  string  him  up.  But  that  ain't  possible ; 
this  yere  miscreant  is  a  gov'ment  official  an'  wears 
the  gov'ment  brand,  an'  even  the  Stranglers,  of 
whatever  commoonity,  ain't  strong  enough,  an* 
wouldn't  be  jestified  in  stackin'  in  ag'in  the 
gov'ment.  Captain  Moon's  only  show  is  a  feud. 
He  oughter  caper  over  an',  as  private  as  possible, 
arrogate  to  himse'f  the  skelp  of  this  yere  agent  who 
abandons  his  relatif  to  them  hostiles.' 

"Wolfville  listens  to  Captain  Moon's  hist'ry  of 
his  wrongs  ;  but  aside  from  them  eloocidations  of 


102  -Wolfvillc  Days. 

Enright,  no  gent  says  much.  Thar's  some  games 
where  troo  p'liteness  consists  in  sayin'  nothin'  an' 
knowin'  less.  But  the  most  careless  hand  in  camp 
can  see  that  Moon's  aimin'  at  reprisals. 

"  This  Curly  Ben  is  trackin'  about  Wolfville  at 
the  time.  Curly  ain't  what  you-all  would  call  a 
elevated  character.  He's  a  rustler  of  cattle,  an*  a 
smuggler  of  Mexican  goods,  an'  Curly  an'  the  Yoo- 
nited  States  marshals  has  had  more  turn-ups  than 
one.  But  Curly  is  dead  game ;  an*  so  far,  he 
manages  to  either  out-luck  or  out-shoot  them  magis 
trates  ;  an',  as  I  says,  when  Moon  comes  wanderin' 
in  that  time,  mournin'  for  his  nephy,  Curly  has  been 
projectin'  about  camp  for  like  it's  a  week. 

"  Moon  sort  o'  roommates  on  the  play,  up  an* 
down,  for  a  day  or  so,  makin'  out  a  plan.  He  don't 
want  to  go  back  himse'f ;  the  agent  knows  him,  an* 
them  Injuns  knows  him,  an*  it's  even  money,  if  he 
comes  pokin*  into  their  bailiwick,  they'll  tumble  to 
his  errant.  In  sech  events,  they're  shore  doo  to 
corral  him  an'  give  them  ants  another  holiday.  It's 
the  ant  part  that  gives  pore  Captain  Moon  a  chill. 

"  *  I'll  take  a  chance  on  a  bowie  knife, 'says  Moon 
to  Dan  Boggs, — Dan,  bein'  a  sympathetic  gent  an* 
takin'  nacherally  to  folks  in  trouble,  has  Moon's  con- 
fidence  from  the  jump  ;  '  I'll  take  a  chance  on  a 
bowie  knife ;  an*  as  for  a  gun,  I  simply  courts  the 
resk.  But  them  ants  dazzles  me — I  lay  down  to 
ants,  an'  I  looks  on  it  as  no  disgrace  to  a  gent  to 
say  so/ 

"  '  Ants  shorely  do  sound  poignant,' admits  Dan; 


The  Treachery  of  Curly  Ben*  103 

'speshully  them  big  black  an*  red  ants  that  has 
stingers  like  hornets  an'  pinchers  like  bugs.  Seen 
insecks,  armed  to  the  teeth  as  they  be,  an'  laid  out 
to  fight  both  ways  from  the  middle,  is  likewise  too 
many  for  me.  I  would  refoose  battle  with  'em  my- 
se'f.' 

"  It  ain't  long  before  Captain  Moon  an'  Curly  Ben 
is  seen  confidin'  an'  conferrin'  with  one  another,  an' 
drinkin'  by  themse'fs  ;  an*  no  one  has  to  be  told 
that  Moon's  makin'  negotiations  with  Curly  to  ride 
over  an'  down  the  agent.  The  idee  is  pecooliarly 
grateful  to  Wolfville.  It  stands  to  win  no  matter 
how  the  kyards  lay  in  the  box.  If  Curly  fetches 
the  agent  flutterin'  from  his  limb,  thar's  one  mis 
creant  less  in  Arizona;  if  the  agent  gets  the  drop 
an'  puts  out  Curly  Ben,  it  comes  forth  jest  the  same. 
It's  the  camp's  theery  that,  in  all  that  entitles  'em 
to  death,  the  case  stands  hoss  an*  hoss  between  the 
agent  an'  Curly  Ben. 

"  '  An'  if  they  both  gets  downed,  it's  a  whip-saw  , 
we  win  both  ways  ; '  says  Cherokee  Hall,  an*  the 
rest  of  us  files  away  our  nose-paint  in  silent  assent 
tharwith. 

"  It  comes  out  later  that  Moon  agrees  to  give 
Curly  Ben  fifteen  hundred  dollars  an'  a  pony,  if 
he'll  go  over  an'  kill  off  the  agent.  Curly  Ben  says 
the  prop'sition  is  the  pleasantest  thing  he  hears 
since  he  leaves  the  Panhandle  ten  years  before  ;  an' 
so  he  accepts  five  hundred  dollars  an*  the  pony — 
the  same  bein*  in  the  nacher  of  payments  in  advance 
—an'  goes  clatterin'  off  up  the  canyon  one  evenin* 


104  Wolfville  Days. 

on  his  mission  of  jestice.  An'  then  we  hears  no 
more  of  Curly  Ben  for  about  a  month.  No  one 
marvels  none  at  this,  however,  as  downin'  any  given 
gent  is  a  prop'sition  which  in  workin'  out  is  likely 
to  involve  delays. 

"  One  day,  with  onruffled  brow  an'  an  air  all 
careless  an'  free,  Curly  Ben  rides  into  Wolfville  an* 
begins  orderin'  whiskey  at  the  Red  Light  before 
he's  hardly  cl'ar  of  the  saddle.  Thar  ain't  nobody  in 
camp,  from  Doc  Peets  to  Missis  Rucker,  but  what's 
eager  to  know  the  finish  of  Curly 's  expedition,  but 
of  course  everybody  hobbles  his  feelin's  in  them 
behalfs.  It's  Captain  Moon's  fooneral,  an'  he 
oughter  have  a  first,  oninterrupted  say.  Moon 
comes  up  to  Curly  Ben  where  Curly  is  cuttin'  the 
alkali  dust  outen  his  throat  at  the  Red  Light  bar. 

"  *  Did  you  get  him  ?  '  Moon  asks  after  a  few  p'lite 
preeliminaries.  '  Did  you  bring  back  his  ha'r  an' 
y'ears  like  we  agrees  ?  ' 

" '  Have  you-all  got  the  other  thousand  ready/ 
says  Curly  Ben,  '  in  the  event  I  do  ?  ' 

" '  Right  yere  in  my  war-bags,'  says  Moon, 
1  awaitin'  to  make  good  for  your  time  an'  talent  an* 
trouble  in  revengin'  my  pore  nephy's  deemise  by  way 
of  them  insecks.'  An'  Moon  slaps  his  pocket  as 
locatin'  the  dinero. 

" '  Well,  I  don't  get  him,'  says  Curly  Ben  ca'mly, 
settin'  his  glass  on  the  bar. 

"  Thar's  a  pause  of  mebby  two  minutes,  doorin' 
which  Moon  looks  cloudy,  as  though  he  don't  like 
the  way  the  kyards  is  comin'  ;  Curly  Ben,  on  his 


The  Treachery  of  Curly  Ben*  105 

part,  is  smilirv  like  what  Huggins  calls  '  one  of  his 
songstresses'  over  in  the  Bird  Cage  Op'ry  House. 
After  a  bit,  Moon  resoomes  them  investigations. 

"  '  Don't  I  give  you  four  stacks  of  reds  an'  a  pony/ 
he  says, '  to  reepair  to  that  murderer  an'  floor-manage 
his  obsequies  ?  An'  don't  I  promise  you  eight 
stacks  more  when  you  reports  with  that  outcast's 
y'ears  an'  ha'r,  as  showin'  good  faith?' 

"  '  C'rrect ;  every  word,'  says  Curly  Ben,  lightin'  a 
seegyar  an  then  leanin'  his  elbows  on  the  bar,  aheap 
onmoved. 

" '  Which  I  would  admire  to  know,  then,'  says 
Moon,  an'  his  eyes  is  gettin'  little  an'  hard,  '  why 
you-all  don't  made  good  them  compacts.' 

"  '  Well,  I'll  onfold  the  reasons  an'  make  it  as 
plain  an'  cl'ar  an'  convincin'  as  a  spade  flush/  says 
Curly  Ben.  '  When  I  gets  to  this  yere  victim  of 
ours,  I  finds  him  to  be  a  mighty  profoose  an'  lavish 
form  of  sport.  The  moment  I'm  finished  explainin' 
to  him  my  mission,  an*  jest  as  I  onlimbers  my  six- 
shooter  to  get  him  where  he  lives,  he  offers  me 
five  thousand  dollars  to  comeback  yere  an'  kill  you. 
Nacherally,  after  that,  me  an'  this  yere  subject  of  our 
plot  takes  a  few  drinks,  talks  it  over,  an'  yere  I  be.' 

"  '  But  what  be  you  aimin'  to  do  ?  '  asks  Moon. 

"  '  What  be  you  aimin'  to  do  ?  '  responds  Curly 
Ben.  As  I  states,  he's  shore  the  most  ornery 
coyote ! 

"  '  I  don't  onderstand/  says  Moon. 

"'Why  it's  as  obv'ous/  retorts  Curly  Ben,  *  as  the 
Fence  Rail  brand,  an'  that  takes  up  the  whole  side 


io6  Wolfvillc  Days. 

of  a  cow.  The  question  now  is,  do  you  raise  this 
yeregent?  He  raises  you  as  I  explains;  now  do 
you  quit,  or  tilt  him,  say,  a  thousand  better?' 

" '  An  suppose  I  don't  ? '  says  Moon,  sort  o*  fig- 
gerin'  for  a  moment  or  so.  '  What  do  you  reckon  now 
would  be  your  next  move  ?  ' 

"  *  Thar  would  be  but  one  thing  to  do,'  says  Curly 
Ben  mighty  placid ;  Td  shorely  take  him.  I  would 
proceed  with  your  destruction  at  once,  an*  return 
to  this  agent  gent  an*  accept  that  five  thousand  dol 
lar  honorarium  he  offers.' 

"  Curly  Ben  is  '  bad '  plumb  through,  an*  the 
sights,  as  they  says  in  the  picturesque  language  of 
the  Southwest,  has  been  filed  from  his  guns  for  many 
years.  Which  this  last  is  runnin*  in  Moon's  head 
while  he  talks  with  his  disgustin'  emmissary.  Moon 
ain't  out  to  take  chances  on  gettin'  the  worst  of  it. 
An'  tharfore,  Moon  at  once  waxes  cunnin'  a  whole 
lot. 

" '  I'm  a  pore  man/  he  says,  '  but  if  it  takes  them 
teams  of  mine,  to  the  last  tire  an'  the  last  hoof,  I've 
got  to  have  this  agent's  ha'r  an*  y'ears.  You  camp 
around  the  Red  Light  awhile,  Curly,  till  I  go  over 
to  the  New  York  Store  an'  see  about  more  money. 
I'll  be  back  while  you're  layin'  out  another  drink/ 

"  Now  it's  not  to  the  credit  of  Curly,  as  a  crim'- 
nal  who  puts  thought  into  his  labors,  that  he  lets 
Captain  Moon  turn  his  flank  the  easy  way  he  does. 
It  displays  Curly  as  lackin*  a  heap  in  mil'tary 
genius.  I  don't  presoome  to  explain  it ;  an*  it's  all 
so  dead  onnacheral  at  this  juncture  that  the  only 


The  Treachery  of  Curly  Ben.  107 

s'lootion  I'm  cap'ble  of  givin'  it  is  that  it's  pree* 
destinated  that  a-way.  Curly  not  only  lets  Moon 
walk  off,  which  after  he  hangs  up  that  bluff  about 
takin*  them  terms  of  the  agent's  is  mighty  irreg'lar, 
but  he's  that  obtoose  he  sits  down  to  play  kyards, 
while  he's  waitin',  with  his  back  to  the  door.  Why  ! 
it's  like  sooicide ! 

"Moon  goes  out  to  his  wagons  an*  gets,  an' 
buckles  on,  his  guns.  Quick,  crafty,  brisk  as  a  cat 
an'  with  no  more  noise,  Moon  comes  walkin*  into 
the  Red  Light  door.  He  sees  Curly  where  he  sits 
at  seven-up,  with  his  back  turned  towards  him. 

"  *  One  for  jack  ! '  says  Curly,  turnin*  that  fav'rite 
kyard.  Moon  sort  o'  drifts  to  his  r'ar. 

"  *  Bang ! '  says  Moon's  pistol,  an*  Curly  falls 
for'ards  onto  the  table,  an'  then  onto  the  floor,  the 
bullet  plumb  through  his  head,  as  I  informs  you. 

"  Curly  Ben  never  has  the  shadow  of  a  tip ;  he's 
out  of  the  Red  Light  an'  into  the  regions  beyond, 
like  snappin'  your  thumb  an*  finger.  It's  as  sharp 
as  the  buck  of  a  pony ;  he's  Moon's  meat  in  a 
minute. 

"  No ;  thar's  nothin'  for  Wolfville  to  do.  Moon's 
jestified.  Which  his  play  is  the  one  trail  out ;  for 
up  to  that  p'int  where  Moon  onhooks  his  guns, 
Curly  ain't  done  nothin'  to  put  him  in  reach  of  the 
Stranglers.  Committees  of  vig'lance,  that  a-way, 
like  shore-enough  co'ts,  can't  prevent  crime;  they 
only  punish  it,  an*  up  to  where  Moon  gets  decisive 
action,  thar's  no  openin'  by  which  the  Stranglers 
could  cut  in  on  the  deal.  Yes,  Enright  convenes 


io8  Wolfville  Days* 

his  committee  an'  goes  through  the  motions  of 
tryin'  Moon.  They  does  this  to  preserve  appear 
ances,  but  of  course  they  throws  Moon  loose.  An* 
as  thar's  reasons,  as  any  gent  can  see,  why  no  one 
cares  to  have  the  story  as  it  is,  be  made  a  subject 
of  invidious  gossip  in  Red  Dog,  an'  other  outfits 
envious  of  Wolfville,  at  Enright's  su  gestion,  the 
Stranglers  bases  the  acquittal  of  Moon  on  the  fact 
that  Curly  Ben  deloodes  Moon's  sister,  back  in  the 
States,  an'  then  deserts  her.  Moon  cuts  the  trail  of 
the  base  sedoocer  in  Wolfville,  an'  gathers  him  in 
accordin',  an'  as  a  brother  preyed  on  by  his  sister's 
wrongs  is  shorely  expected  to  do." 

"  But  Curly  Ben  never  did  mislead  Moon's  sister, 
did  he  ?  "  I  asked,  for  the  confident  fashion  where 
with  my  old  friend  reeled  off  the  finding  of  Wolf- 
ville's  vigilance  committee,  and  the  reasons,  almost 
imposed  on  me. 

"  Which  you  can  bet  the  limit,"  he  observed 
fiercely,  as  he  prepared  to  go  into  the  hotel ;  "  which 
you  can  go  the  limit  open,  son,  Curly  ain't  none 
too  good." 


CHAPTER  DL 

Colonel  Sterett's  Reminiscences* 

"  AN'  who  is  Colonel  William  Greene  Sterett, 
you  asks  ?  "  repeated  the  Old  Cattleman,  with  some 
indignant  elevation  of  voice.  "  He's  the  founder 
of  the  Coyote,  Wolfville's  first  newspaper  ;  is  as 
cultivated  a  gent  that  a-way  as  acquires  his  nose- 
paint  at  the  Red  Light's  bar ;  an'  comes  of  as 
good  a  Kaintucky  fam'ly  as  ever  distils  its  own 
whiskey  or  loses  its  money  on  a  hoss.  Son,  I  tells 
you  this  prior."  This  last  reproachfully. 

"  No  ;  Colonel  Sterett  ain't  old  none — not  what 
you-all  would  call  aged.  When  he  cornes  weavin' 
into  Wolfville  that  time,  I  reckons  now  Colonel 
Sterett  is  mighty  likely  about  twenty-odd  years 
younger  than  me,  an*  at  that  time  I  shows  about 
fifty  rings  on  my  horns.  As  for  eddication,  he's 
shore  a  even  break  with  Doc  Peets ;  an'  as  I  remarks 
frequent,  I  never  calls  the  hand  of  that  gent  in 
Arizona  who  for  a  lib'ral  enlightenment  is 
bullsnakes  to  rattlesnakes  with  Peets. 

"  Speakin'  about  who  Colonel  Sterett  is ;  he 
onfolds  his  pedigree  in  full  one  evenin'  when  we're 
all  sort  o'  self-herded  in  the  New  York  Store. 
Which  his  story  is  a  proud  one ;  an*  I'm  a  jedge 


no  "Wolfville  Days* 

because  comin  as  I  do  from  Tennessee  myse'f, 
nacherally  I  saveys  all  about  Kaintucky.  Thar's 
three  grades  of  folks  in  Kaintucky,  the  same  bein' 
contingent  entire  on  whereabouts  them  folks  is 
camped.  Thar's  the  Bloo  Grass  deestrict,  the 
Pennyr'yal  deestrict,  an'  the  Purchase.  The  Bloo 
Grass  folks  is  the  'ristocrats,  while  them  low-flung 
trash  from  the  Purchase  is  a  heap  plebeian.  The 
Pennyr'yal  outfit  is  kind  o'  hesitatin'  'round  between 
a  balk  an'  a  break-down  in  between  the  other 
two,  an*  is  part  'ristocratic  that  a-way  an'  part  mud. 
As  for  Colonel  Sterett,  he's  pure  strain  Bloo  Grass, 
an*  he  shows  it.  I'll  say  this  for  the  Colonel, 
an'  it  shorely  knits  me  to  him  from  the  first,  he 
could  take  a  bigger  drink  of  whiskey  without  sugar 
or  water  than  ever  I  sees  a  gent  take  in  my  life. 

"  That  time  I  alloods  to,  when  Colonel  Sterett 
vouchsafes  them  recollections,  we-all  is  in  the 
r'ar  wareroom  of  the  New  York  Store  where  the 
whiskey  bar'ls  be,  samplin'  some  Valley  Tan  that's 
jest  been  freighted  in.  As  she's  new  goods,  that 
Valley  Tan,  an'  as  our  troo  views  touchin'  its 
merits  is  important  to  the  camp,  we're  testin'  the 
beverage  plenty  free  an'  copious.  No  expert  gent 
can  give  opinions  worth  a  white  chip  concernin*  nose- 
paint  short  o'  six  drinks,  an'  we  wasn't  out  to  make 
no  errors  in  our  findin's  about  that  Valley  Tan. 
So,  as  I  relates,  we're  all  mebby  some  five  drinks 
to  the  good,  an*  at  last  the  talk,  which  has  strayed 
over  into  the  high  grass  an'  is  gettin'  a  whole  lot 
too  learned  an'  profound  for  most  of  the  herd  to 


Colonel  Sterett's  Reminiscences.  in 

cut  in  on,  settles  down  between  Doc  Peets  an 
Colonel  Sterett  as  bein'  the  only  two  sports  able  to 
protect  their  play  tharin. 

"  *  An'  you  can  go  as  far  as  you  like  on  it,'  says 
the  Colonel  to  Peets,  *  I'm  plumb  wise  an*  full 
concernin'  the  transmigration  of  souls.  I  gives  it 
my  hearty  beliefs.  I  can  count  a  gent  up  the 
moment  I  looks  at  him  ;  also  I  knows  exactly  what 
he  is  before  he's  a  hooman  bein'.' 

"  '  That  "  transmigration  "  that  a-way/  whispers 
Dan  Boggs  to  Cherokee  Hall,  '  ain't  no  fool  of  a 
word.  I'll  prance  over  an'  pull  it  on  Red  Dog 
to-morry.  Which  it's  shore  doo  to  strike  'em  dumb/ 

" '  Now  yere's  Hoppin'  Harry/  goes  on  the 
Colonel  p'intin'  to  a  thin,  black  little  felon  with 
long  ha'r  like  a  pony,  who's  strayed  over  from 
Tucson ;  *  I  gives  it  out  cold,  meanin'  tharby  no 
offence  to  our  Tucson  friend — I  gives  it  out  cold 
that  Hoppin'  Harry  used  to  be  a  t'rant'ler.  First/ 
continyoos  the  Colonel,  stackin'  Harry  up  mighty 
scientific  with  his  optic  jest  showin*  over  his  glass, 
*  first  I  allows  he's  a  toad.  Not  a  horned  toad, 
which  is  a  valyooed  beast  an'  has  a  mission;  but 
one  of  these  yere  ornery  forms  of  toads  which 
infests  the  East.  This  last  reptile  is  vulgar, 
sluggish,  a  anamile  of  few  if  any  virchoos  ;  while 
the  horned  toad,  so  called,  come  right  down  to 
cases,  ain't  no  toad  nohow.  It's  a  false  brand,  an* 
he  don't  belong  with  the  toad  herd  at  all.  The 
horned  toad  is  a  lizard — a  broad  kind  o'  lizard ;  an* 
as  for  bein'  sluggish,  you  let  him  have  something  on 


ii2  Wolfvillc  Days* 

his  mind  speshul,  an'  he'll  shore  go  careerin*  about 
plumb  swift.  Moreover,  he  don't  hop,  your 
horned  toad  don't,  like  them  Eastern  toads ;  he 
stands  up  on  his  toes  an'  paces — he's  what  we-all 
calls  on  the  Ohio  River  back  in  my  childhood's 
sunny  hours,  "  a  side-wheeler."  Also,  he's  got  a 
tail.  An'  as  for  sperit,  let  me  tell  you  this  : — I  has 
a  horned  toad  where  I'm  camped  over  by  the  Tres 
Hermanas,  where  I'm  deer-huntin'.  I  wins  that 
toad's  love  from  the  jump  with  hunks  of  bread  an* 
salt  hoss  an'  kindred  del'cacies.  He  dotes  on  me. 
When  time  hangs  heavy,  I  entertains  myse'f  with 
a  dooel  between  Augustus — Augustus  bein*  the 
horned  toad's  name — ,  an*  a  empty  sardine  box  for 
which  he  entertains  resentments. 

"  '  "  Lay  for  him,  Augustus  !  "  I'd  say,  at  the  same 
instant  battin'  him  in  the  nose  with  the  box. 

" '  Of  course,  Augustus  ain't  got  savey  enough  to 
realize  I  does  it.  He  allows  it's  the  box  that  a-way 
makin'  malev'lent  bluffs  at  him.  An'  say,  pards, 
it  would  have  made  you  proud  of  your  country  an* 
its  starry  flag  to  see  Augustus  arch  himse'f  for  war 
on  them  o'casions. 

"  *  Not  that  Augustus  is  malignant  or  evil  dis 
posed,  nacheral.  No,  sir  ;  I've  yet  to  meet  up  with 
the  toad  who  has  his  simple,  even,  gen'rous  temper 
or  lovin'  heart ;  as  trustful  too,  Augustus  is,  as  the 
babe  jest  born.  But  like  all  noble  nachers,  Augus 
tus  is  sensitive,  an'  he  regyards  them  bats  in  the 
nose  as  insults.  As  I  says,  you-all  should  have  seen 
him  !  He'd  poise  himse'f  on  his  toes,  erect  the 


Colonel  Steretfs  Reminiscences,  113 

horn  on  his  nose,  same  as  one  of  these  yere  rhinoc 
eroses  of  holy  writ,  an'  then  the  way  Augustus 
hooks  an*  harasses  that  offensive  sardine  box  about 
the  camp  is  a  lesson  to  folks.' 

"*  Where's  this  yere  Augustus  now?'  asks  Dan 
Boggs,  who's  got  all  wropped  up  in  the  Colonel's 
narratifs. 

"  '  Petered,'  says  the  Colonel,  an*  thar's  feelin's  in 
his  tones ;  '  pore  Augustus  cashes  in.  He's  fol- 
lowin'  me  about  one  mornin'  watchin'  me  hook  up 
— we  was  gettin'  ready  to  move  camp — an'  all  inad 
vertent  I  backs  the  wagon  onto  Augustus.  The 
hind  wheel  goes  squar'  over  him  an*  flattens  Au 
gustus  out  complete.  He  dies  with  his  eyes  fixed 
on  me,  an'  his  looks  says  as  plain  as  language, 
"  Cheer  up,  Colonel !  This  yere  contreetemps  don't 
change  my  affections,  for  I  knows  it's  a  misdeal." 
You-all  can  gamble  I  don't  do  nothin'  more  that 
day  but  mourn.' 

"  '  Which  I  should  shorely  say  so  ! '  says  Dan 
Boggs,  an'  his  voice  is  shakin' ;  *  a-losin'  of  a  gifted 
horned  toad  like  Augustus !  I'd  a-howled  like  a 
wolf/ 

"  *  But  as  I'm  sayin','  resoomes  the  Colonel,  after 
comfortin'  himse'f  with  about  four  fingers  ; '  speakin* 
of  the  transmigration  of  souls,  I  goes  off  wrong 
about  Hoppin'  Harry  that  time.  I  takes  it,  he 
used  to  be  one  of  these  yere  Eastern  toads  on  ac 
count  of  his  gait.  But  I'm  erroneous.  Harry,  who 
is  little  an'  spry  an'  full  of  p'isen  that  a-way,  used  to 
be  a  t'rant'ler.  Any  gent  who'll  take  the  trouble  to 


ii4  Wolfville  Days. 

recall  one  of  these  hairy,  hoppin'  t'rant'ler  spiders 
who  jumps  sideways  at  you,  full  of  rage  an'  venom, 
is  bound  to  be  reminded  particular  of  Hoppin' 
Harry.' 

"  '  What  did  you-all  use  to  be  yourse'f,  Colonel? ' 
asks  Enright,  who  notices  that  Hoppin'  Harry 
is  beginnin'  to  bristle  some,  like  he  ain't  pleased 
none  with  these  yere  revelations.  '  What  for  a 
anamile  was  you  before  you're  a  hooman?' 

"  '  I  was  a  good-nachered  hoss,'  says  the  Colonel 
mighty  confident  an'  prompt ;  '  I'm  a  good-nachered 
hoss  in  a  country  neighborhood,  an*  everybody  rides 
me  that  wants  to.  However,  I  allows  we  better 
shift  the  subject  some.  If  we-all  talks  about  these 
yere  insects  an*  reptiles  a  little  longer,  Huggins 
over  thar — whose  one  weakness  is  he's  too  frank 
with  an'  puts  too  much  confidence  in  his  licker 
— will  have  another  one  of  them  attacks  of  second 
sight,  which  Peets  cures  him  of  that'  time,  an'  com 
mence  seein'  a  multitood  of  heinous  visions/ 

" '  Of  course,'  says  Enright,  plumb  p'lite,  *  of 
course,  Colonel,  I  can  tell  a  whole  lot  about  your 
fam'ly  by  jest  lookin'  at  you  ;  partic'lar  where  as  at 
present  you're  about  ten  drinks  ahead  ;  still  thar's 
nothin'  gives  me  more  pleasure  than  hearin'about 
the  sire  from  the  colt ;  an'  if  you  won't  receive  it 
resentful,  I'd  ask  you  as  to  your  folks  back  in 
Kaintuck.' 

"  '  As  you-all  knows,'  observes  Colonel  Sterett,  '  I 
was  foaled  in  Kaintucky ;  an'  I  must  add,  I  never 
recalls  that  jestly  cel'brated  commonwealth  with- 


Colonel  Sterett's  Reminiscences*  115 

out  a  sigh.  Its  glories,  sech  as  they  was  before 
the  war,  is  fast  departin'  away.  In  my  yooth,  thar 
is  nothin'  but  a  nobility  in  Kaintucky  ;  leastwise  in 
the  Bloo  Grass  country,  whereof  I'm  a  emanation. 
We  bred  hosses  an'  cattle,  an*  made  whiskey  an' 
played  kyards,  an'  the  black  folks  does  the  work. 
We  descends  into  nothin'  so  low  as  labor  in  them 
halcyon  days.  Our  social  existence  is  made  up  of 
weddin's,  infares  an*  visitin'  'round  ;  an'  life  in  the 
Bloo  Grass  is  a  pleasant  round  of  chicken  fixin's  an* 
flour  doin's  from  one  Christmas  to  another/ 

"  '  Sech  deescriptions,'  remarks  Enright  with  emo 
tion  an'  drawin'  the  back  of  his  hand  across  his 
eyes,  '  brings  back  my  yearlin'  days  in  good  old 
Tennessee.  We-all  is  a  heap  like  you  Kaintucks, 
down  our  way.  We  was  a  roode,  exyooberant  out 
fit  ;  but  manly  an'  sincere.  It's  trooly  a  region 
where  men  is  men,  as  that  sport  common  to  our 
neck  of  timber  known  as  "  the  first  eye  out  for  a 
quart  of  whiskey  "  testifies  to  ample.  Thar's  my 
old  dad !  I  can  see  him  yet,'  an'  yere  Enright 
closes  his  eyes  some  ecstatic.  '  He  was  a  shore 
man.  He  stood  a  hundred-foot  without  a  knot  or 
limb  ;  could  wrastle  or  run  or  jump,  an'  was  good  to 
cut  a  4-bit  piece  at  one  hundred  yards,  offhand, 
with  his  old  8-squar'  rifle.  He  never  shoots  squir 
rels,  my  father  don't ;  he  barks  'em.  An'  for  to  see 
the  skin  cracked,  or  so  much  as  a  drop  of  blood  on 
one  of  'em,  when  he  picks  it  up,  would  have  morti 
fied  the  old  gent  to  death.' 

"  '  Kaintucky   to   a   hair,'  assented  the   Colonel, 


n6  Wolfvillc  Days. 

who  listens  to  Enright  plenty  rapt  that  a-way. 
'  An*  things  is  so  Arcadian  !  If  a  gent  has  a  hour 
off  an*  feels  friendly  an'  like  minglin*  with  his  kind, 
all  he  does  is  sa'nter  over  an*  ring  the  town  bell. 
Nacherally,  the  commoonity  lets  go  its  grip  an* 
comes  troopin'  up  all  spraddled  out.  It  don't  know 
if  it's  a  fire,  it  don't  know  if  it's  a  fight,  it  don't 
know  if  it's  a  birth,  it  don't  know  if  it's  a  hoss  race, 
it  don't  know  if  it's  a  drink  ;  an'  it  don't  care.  The 
commoonity  keeps  itse'f  framed  up  perpetyooal  to 
enjoy  any  one  of  the  five,  an'  tharfore  at  the  said 
summons  comes  troopin',  as  I  say. 

"  '  My  grandfather  is  the  first  Sterett  who  invades 
Kaintucky,  an'  my  notion  is  that  he  comes  curvin* 
in  with  Harrod,  Kenton,  Boone  an'  Simon  Girty. 
No  one  knows  wherever  does  he  come  from  ;  an'  no 
one's  got  the  sand  to  ask,  he's  that  dead  haughty 
an'  reserved.  For  myse'f,  I'm  not  freighted  to  the 
gyards  with  details  touchin'  on  my  grandfather;  he 
passes  in  his  chips  when  mebby  I'm  ten  years  old, 
an*  the  only  things  about  him  I'm  shore  of  as  a 
child,  is  that  he's  the  greatest  man  on  earth  an'  owns 
all  the  land  south  of  the  Ohio  river. 

"  '  This  yere  grandfather  I'm  talkin'  of,'  contin- 
yoos  the  Colonel  after  ag'in  refreshin'  himse'f  with 
some  twenty  drops,  '  lives  in  a  big  house  on  a  bluff 
over-lookin*  the  Ohio,  an*  calls  his  place  "  The 
Hill."  Up  across  one  of  the  big  stone  chimleys  is 
carved  "  John  Sterett,"  that  a-way  ;  which  I  men 
tions  the  same  as  goin'  to  show  he  ain't  afeard 
none  of  bein'  followed,  an*  that  wherever  he  does 


Colonel  Sterett's  Reminiscences*     ,         117 

come  p'intin'  out  from,  thar's  no  reward  offered  for 
his  return.' 

" '  I  ain't  so  shore  neither,'  interjects  Texas 
Thompson.  '  He  might  have  shifted  the  cut  an' 
changed  his  name.  Sech  feats  is  frequent  down 
'round  Laredo  where  I  hails  from,  an'  no  questions 
asked.' 

"  *  Up  on  the  roof  of  his  ranch/  goes  on  the 
Colonel,  for  he's  so  immersed  in  them  mem'ries  he 
don't  hear  Texas  where  he  rings  in  his  theeries,  '  up 
on  the  roof  my  grandfather  has  a  big  bell,  an'  the 
rope  is  brought  down  an'  fetched  through  a  auger 
hole  in  the  side  of  the  house,  so  he  can  lay  in  bed 
if  he  feels  like  it,  an'  ring  this  yere  tocsin  of  his 
while  so  minded.  An'  you  can  bet  he  shorely  rings 
her!  Many  a  time  an'  oft  as  a  child  about  my 
mother's  knees,  the  sound  of  that  ringin'  comes 
floatin'  to  us  where  my  father  has  his  house  four 
miles  further  down  the  river.  On  sech  o'casions 
I'd  up  an'  ask : 

"  '  "  Whatever  is  this  yere  ringin'?  " 

"'"Hesh,  my  child!"  my  mother  would  say, 
smotherin'  my  mouth  with  her  hand,  her  voice 
sinkin'  to  a  whisper,  for  as  the  head  of  the  House 
of  Sterett,  every  one  of  the  tribe  is  plumb  scared  of 
my  grandfather  an'  mentions  him  with  awe.  "  Hesh, 
my  child,"  says  my  mother  like  I  relates,  "  that's 
your  grandfather  ringin'  his  bell." 

" '  An'  from  calf-time  to  beef-time,  from  the  first 
kyard  out  of  the  box  down  to  the  turn,  no  one 
ever  knows  why  my  grandfather  does  ring  it,  for  he's 


n8  Wolfville  Days. 

too  onbendin*  to  tell  of  his  own  accord,  an*  as 
I  states  prior,  no  one  on  earth  has  got  nerve  an* 
force  of  character  enough  to  ask  him. 

"  *  My  own  father,  whose  name  is  the  same  as 
mine,  bein'  Willyum  Greene  Sterett,  is  the  oldest  of 
my  grandfather's  chil'en.  He's  a  stern,  quiet  gent, 
an*  all  us  young-ones  is  wont  to  step  high  an'  softly 
whenever  he's  pesterin'  'round.  He  respects 
nobody  except  my  grandfather,  fears  nothin'  but 
gettin'  out  of  licker. 

"'Like  my  grandfather  up  at  "The  Hill,"  my 
father  devotes  all  his  talents  to  raisin'  runnin* 
hosses,  an*  the  old  farm  would  have  been  a  heap 
lonesome  if  thar's  fewer  than  three  hundred  head  a 
nickerin'  about  the  barns  an'  pastures.  Shore  !  we 
has  slaves  too  ;  we  has  niggers  to  a  stand-still. 

"  *  As  I  look  r'arward  to  them  days  of  my  infancy, 
I  brings  to  mind  a  staggerin'  blow  that  neighbor- 
hood  receives.  A  stern-wheeler  sinks  about  two 
hundred  yards  off  our  landin'  with  one  thousand 
bar'ls  of  whiskey  on  board.  When  the  news  of  that 
whiskey  comes  flyin'  inland,  it  ain't  a  case  of  indi- 
vidyooals  nor  neighborhoods,  but  whole  counties 
comes  stampedin'  to  the  rescoo.  It's  no  use ;  the 
boat  bogs  right  down  in  the  sand  ;  in  less  than  an 
hour  her  smoke  stack  is  onder  water.  All  we  ever 
gets  from  the  wrack  is  the  bell,  the  same  now 
adornin'  a  Presbyter'an  church  an'  summonin'  folks 
to  them  services.  I  tells  you,  gents,  the  thoughts  of 
that  Willow  Run,  an*  we  not  able  to  save  so  much 
as  a  quart  of  it,  puts  a  crimp  in  that  commoonity 


Colonel  Steretfs  Reminiscences*  119 

they  ain't  yet  outlived.  It  'most  drives  'em  crazy ; 
they  walks  them  banks  for  months  a-wringin'  their 
hands  an'  wishin'  the  impossible.' 

"  '  Is  any  one  drowned  ? '  asks  Faro  Nell,  who 
comes  in,  a  moment  before,  an'  as  usual  plants  her- 
se'f  clost  to  Cherokee  Hall.  '  Is  thar  any  women  or 
children  aboard  ? ' 

"  *  Nell/  says  the  Colonel,  *  I  apol'gizes  for  my 
ignorance,  but  I'm  bound  to  confess  I  don't  know. 
Thar's  no  one  knows.  The  awful  fact  of  them  one 
thousand  bar'ls  of  Willow  Run  perishin'  before  our 
very  eyes,  swallows  up  all  else,  an'  minor  details 
gets  lost  in  the  shuffle  an'  stays  lost  for  all  time. 
It's  a  tumble  jolt  to  the  general  sens'bilities,  an* 
any  gent  who'll  go  back  thar  yet  an'  look  hard  in 
the  faces  of  them  people,  can  see  traces  of  that 
c'lamity. 

"  *  As  a  child,'  resoomes  the  Colonel,  '  I'm  ro 
mantic  a  whole  lot.  I'm  carried  away  by  music. 
My  fav'rite  airs  is  "  Smith's  March,"  an'  "  Cease 
Awhile  Clarion  ;  Clarion  Wild  an'  Shrill."  I  either 
wants  something  with  a  sob  in  it  like  "  Cease 
Awhile,"  or  I  desires  War  with  all  her  horrors, 
same  as  a  gent  gets  dished  up  to  him  in  "  Smith's 
March." 

"  *  Also,  I  reads  Scott's  "  Ivanhoe,"  an'  longs  to 
be  a  croosader,  an*  slay  Paynims.  I  used  to  lie  on 
the  bank  by  the  old  Ohio,  an'  shet  my  eyes  ag'in 
the  brightness  of  the  sky,  an'  figger  on  them  set 
backs  we'd  mete  out  to  a  Paynim  if  only  we  might 
tree  one  once  in  old  Kaintucky.  Which  that  Sara- 


i2o  Wolfville  Days* 

cen  would  have  shorely  become  the  basis  of  some 
ceremonies! 

"  '  Most  like  I  was  about  thirteen  years  old  when 
the  Confederacy  declar's  herse'f  a  nation,  elects  Jeff 
Davis  President,  an'  fronts  up  for  trouble.  For 
myse'f  I  concedes  now,  though  I  sort  o'  smothers 
my  feelin's  on  that  p'int  at  the  time,  seein'  we-all 
could  look  right  over  into  the  state  of  Ohio,  said 
state  bein'  heatedly  inimical  to  rebellion  an'  pawin' 
for  trouble  an'  rappin*  its  horns  ag'in  the  trees  at 
the  mere  idee  ;  for  myse'f,  I  say,  I  now  concedes 
that  I  was  heart  an'  soul  with  the  South  in  them 
onhappy  ruptures.  I  breathed  an'  lived  with  but 
one  ambition,  which  is  to  tear  this  devoted  country 
in  two  in  the  middle  an'  leave  the  fragments  that 
a-way,  in  opposite  fields.  My  father,  stern,  ca'm, 
c'llected,  don't  share  the  voylence  of  my  senti 
ments.  He  took  the  middle  ag'in  the  ends  for  his. 
The  attitoode  of  our  state  is  that  of  nootrality,  an* 
my  father  declar'd  for  nootrality  likewise.  My 
grandfather  is  dead  at  the  time,  so  his  example's 
lost  to  us  ;  but  my  father,  sort  o'  projectin'  'round 
for  p'sition,  decides  it  would  be  onfair  in  him  to 
throw  the  weight  of  his  valor  to  either  side,  so  he 
stands  a  pat  hand  on  that  embroglio,  declines 
kyards,  an'  as  I  states  is  nootral.  Which  I  know 
he's  nootral  by  one  thing: 

"  *  "  Willyum,"  he'd  say  that  a-way  when  he'd  no 
tice  me  organizin'  to  go  down  to  the  village ; 
l<  Willyum,"  he'd  say,  "  if  anybody  asks  you  what 
you  be,  an*  speshul  if  any  of  them  Yankees  asks 


Colonel  Sterett's  Reminiscences*  127 

you,  you  tell  'em  that  you're  Union,  but  you  re- 
member  you're  secesh." 

"  *  The  Sterett  fam'ly,  ondoubted,  is  the  smartest 
fam'ly  in  the  South.  My  brother  Jeff,  who  is  five 
years  older  than  me,  gives  proofs  of  this,  partic'lar. 
It's  Jeff  who  invents  that  enterprise  in  fishin',  which 
for  idleness,  profit  an'  pastime,  ain't  never  been 
equalled  since  the  flood,  called  "  Juggin'  for  Cats." 
It's  Jeff,  too,  once  when  he  ups  an'  jines  the 
church,  an'  is  tharafter  preyed  on  with  the  fact  that 
the  church  owes  two  hundred  dollars,  and  that  it 
looks  like  nobody  cares  a  two-bit  piece  about  it 
except  jest  him,  who  hires  a  merry-go-round — one 
of  these  yere  contraptions  with  wooden  hosses,  an* 
a  hewgag  playin'  toones  in  the  center — from  Cin 
cinnati,  sets  her  up  on  the  Green  in  front  of  the 
church,  makes  the  ante  ten  cents,  an'  pays  off  the 
church  debt  in  two  months  with  the  revenoos  tharof. 

" '  As  I  sits  yere,  a  relatin'  of  them  exploits,' 
an'  Colonel  Sterett  tips  the  canteen  for  another 
hooker,  '  as  I  sits  yere,  gents,  all  free  an*  sociable 
with  what's,  bar  none,  the  finest  body  of  gents  that 
ever  yanks  a  cork  or  drains  a  bottle,  I've  seen  the 
nobility  of  Kaintucky — the  Bloo  Grass  Vere-de- 
Veres — ride  up  on  a  blood  hoss,  hitch  the  critter  to 
the  fence,  an'  throw  away  a  fortune  buckin'  Jeff's 
merry-go-round  with  them  wooden  steeds.  It's  as 
I  says :  that  sanctooary  is  plumb  out  of  debt  an* 
on  velvet — has  a  bank  roll  big  enough  to  stopper 
a  2-gallon  jug  with — in  eight  weeks  from  the  time 
Jeff  onfurls  his  lay-out  an'  opens  up  his  game/ 


122  Wolfvillc  Days* 

"  Thar's  one  thing,"  suddenly  observed  my  aged 
companion,  as  he  eyed  me  narrowly,  pausing  in  the 
interesting  Colonel  Sterett's  relation  concerning  his 
family,  and  becoming  doubly  impressive  with  an 
uplifted  fore-finger,  "  thar's  one  thing  I  desires  you 
to  fully  grasp.  As  I  reels  off  this  yere  chronicle, 
you-all  is  not  to  consider  me  as  repeatin'  the 
Colonel's  words  exact.  I  ain't  gifted  like  the 
Colonel,  an'  my  English  ain't  a  marker  to  his.  The 
Colonel  carries  the  language  quiled  up  an'  hangin' 
at  the  saddle  horn  of  his  intelligence,  like  a  cow 
puncher  does  his  lariat.  An'  when  he's  got  ready 
to  rope  an'  throw  a  fact  or  two,  you  should  oughter 
see  him  take  her  down  an*  go  to  work.  Horn  or 
neck  or  any  foot  you  says  ;  it's  all  one  to  the  Colonel. 
Big  or  little  loop,  in  the  bresh  or  in  the  open,  it's  a 
cinch  the  Colonel  fastens  every  time  he  throws  his 
verbal  rope.  The  fact  he's  after  that  a-way,  is  shore 
the  Colonel's.  Doc  Peets  informs  me  private  that 
Colonel  Sterett  is  the  greatest  artist,  oral,  of  which 
his'try  records  the  brand,  an'  you  can  go  broke  on 
Peets's  knowin*.  An'  thar's  other  test'mony. 

"  '  I  don't  lay  down  my  hand,'  says  Texas  Thomp 
son,  one  time  when  him  an'  me  is  alone,  '  to  any  gent 
between  the  Rio  Grande  an'  the  Oregon,  on  sizin* 
up  a  conversation.  An'  I'll  impart  to  you,  holdin' 
nothin'  back,  that  the  Colonel  is  shorely  the  limit. 
Merely  to  listen,  is  an  embarrassment  of  good 
things,  like  openin'  a  five-hand  jack-pot  on  a  ace-full. 
He  can  even  out-talk  my  former  wife,  the  Colonel 
can,  an'  that  esteemable  lady  packs  the  record  as  a 


Colonel  Sterett's  Reminiscences,  123 

conversationist  in  Laredo  for  five  years  before  I 
leaves.  She's  admittedly  the  shorest  shot  with  her 
mouth  on  that  range.  Talkin'  at  a  mark,  or  in  action, 
all  you  has  to  do  is  give  the  lady  the  distance  an'  let 
her  fix  her  sights  once,  an'  she'll  stand  thar,  without 
a  rest,  an'  slam  observation  after  observation  into 
the  bull's  eye  till  you'll  be  abashed.  An'  yet,  com 
pared  to  the  Colonel  yere,  that  lady  stutters  !  * 

"  But  now  to  resoome,"  said  my  friend  when  he 
had  sufficiently  come  to  the  rescue  of  Colonel 
Sterett  and  given  him  his  proper  place  in  my  estima 
tion  ;  "we'll  take  up  the  thread  of  the  Colonel's 
remarks  where  I  leaves  off. 

"  '  My  grandfather,'  says  the  Colonel,  '  is  a  gent 
of  iron-bound  habits.  He  has  his  rooles  an'  he  never 
transgresses  'em.  The  first  five  days  of  the  week, 
he  limits  himse'f  to  fifteen  drinks  per  diem  ;  Satur 
day  he  rides  eight  miles  down  to  the  village,  casts 
aside  restraints,  an'  goes  the  distance  ;  Sunday  he 
devotes  to  meditations. 

"  '  Thar's  times  when  I  inclines  to  the  notion  that 
my  grandfather  possesses  partic'lar  aptitoodes  for 
strong  drink.  This  I'll  say  without  no  thoughts  of 
boastin',  he's  the  one  lone  gent  whereof  I  has  a 
knowledge,  who  can  give  a  three-ring  debauch 
onder  one  canvas  in  one  evenin'.  As  I  states,  my 
grandfather,  reg'lar  every  Saturday  mornin',  rides 
down  to  the  Center,  four  miles  below  our  house, 
an'  begins  to  crook  his  elbow,  keepin'  no  accounts 
an'  permittin*  no  compunctions.  This,  if  the  old 
gent  is  feelin'  fit  an'  likely,  keeps  up  about  six  hours  ; 


124  "Wolfville  Days, 

at  which  epock,  my  grandfather  is  beginnin'  to  feel 
like  his  laigs  is  a  burden  an'  walkin'  a  lost  art.  That's 
where  the  pop'lace  gets  action.  The  onlookers, 
when  they  notes  how  my  ancestor's  laigs  that  a-way 
is  attemptin'  to  assoome  the  soopreme  direction 
of  affairs,  sort  o'  c'llects  him  an'  puts  him  in  the 
saddle.  Settin'  thar  on  his  hoss,  my  grandfather  is 
all  right.  His  center  of  grav'ty  is  shifted  an'  located 
more  to  his  advantage.  I  esteems  it  one  of  them 
evidences  of  a  sooperior  design  in  the  yooniverse, 
an'  a  plain  proof  that  things  don't  come  by  chance, 
that  long  after  a  gent  can't  walk  none,  he's  plumb 
able  to  ride. 

" '  Once  my  grandfather  is  safe  in  his  saddle,  as  I 
relates,  he's  due — him  an'  his  hoss,  this  last  bein'  an 
onusual  sagacious  beast  which  he  calls  his  "  Satur 
day  hoss  " — to  linger  about  the  streets,  an*  collab'- 
rate  with  the  public  for  mebby  five  more  drinks  ; 
followin'  which  last  libations,  he  goes  rackin'  off  for 
"The  Hill." 

"  *  Up  at  our  house  on  Saturdays,  my  father 
allers  throws  a  skirmish  line  of  niggers  across  the 
road,  with  orders  to  capture  my  grandfather  as  he 
comes  romancin'  along.  An'  them  faithful  servi 
tors  never  fails.  They  swarms  down  on  my  grand 
father,  searches  him  out  of  the  saddle  an'  packs  him 
exultin'ly  an'  lovin'ly  into  camp. 

"  '  Once  my  grandfather  is  planted  in  a  cha'r,  with 
a  couple  of  minions  on  each  side  to  steady  the  deal, 
the  others  begins  to  line  out  to  fetch  reestoratifs. 
I'm  too  little  to  take  a  trick  myse'f,  an*  I  can  remem- 


Colonel  Sterett's  Reminiscences*  125 

her  how  on  them  impressif  occasions,  I  would  stand 
an'  look  at  him.  I'd  think  to  myse'f — I  was 
mebby  eight  at  the  time, — "  He's  ondoubted  the 
greatest  man  on  earth,  but  my !  how  blurred  he 
is!" 

" '  Which  as  I  states  yeretofore,  the  Sterett  sys 
tem  is  the  patriarchal  system,  an'  one  an'  all  we 
yields  deference  to  my  grandfather  as  the  onchal- 
lenged  chief  ot  the  tribe.  To  'llustrate  this:  One 
day  my  father,  who's  been  tryin'  out  a  two-year-old 
on  our  little  old  quarter-mile  track,  starts  for  The 
Hill,  takin'  me  an*  a  nigger  jockey,  an'  a-leadin'  of 
the  said  two-year-old  racer  along.  Once  we  arrives 
at  my  grandfather's,  my  father  leaves  us-all  standin' 
in  the  yard  and  reepairs  into  the  house.  The  next 
minute  him  an'  my  grandfather  comes  out.  They 
don't  say  nothin',  but  my  grandfather  goes  all  over 
the  two-year-old  with  eyes  an'  hand  for  mighty 
Likely  ten  minutes.  At  last  he  straightens  up  an* 
turns  on  my  father  with  a  face  loaded  to  the  muzzle 
with  rage. 

"  *  "  Willyum  Greene  Sterett,"  he  says,  conferrin' 
on  my  parent  his  full  name,  the  same  bein'  a  heap 
ominous;  "Willyum  Greene  Sterett,  you've 
brought  that  thing  to  The  Hill  to  beat  my 
Golddust." 

" '  "  Yes,"  says  my  father,  mighty  steady,  "  an' 
I'll  go  right  out  on  your  track  now,  father,  an'  let 
that  black  boy  ride  him,  an'  I'll  gamble  you-all  a 
thousand  dollars  that  thar  two-year-old  beats 
Golddust." 


126  Wolfville  Days, 

"  *  "  Willyum  Greene  Sterett,"  says  my  grand 
father,  lookin'  at  my  father  an'  beginnin'  to  bile, 
"  I've  put  up  with  a  heap  from  you.  You  was  ow- 
dacious  as  a  child,  worthless  as  a  yooth,  an'  a  spend 
thrift  as  a  young  man  grown  ;  an'  a  score  of  times 
I've  paid  your  debts  as  was  my  dooty  as  the  head 
of  the  House  of  Sterett.  But  you  reserves  it  for 
your  forty-ninth  year,  an'  when  I'm  in  my  seventy- 
ninth  year,  to  perform  your  crownin'  outrage. 
You've  brought  that  thing  to  The  Hill  to  beat  my 
Golddust.  Now  let  me  tell  you  somethin',  an*  it'll 
be  water  on  your  wheel  a  whole  lot,  to  give  heed  to 
that  I  says.  You  get  onto  your  hoss,  an'  you  get 
your  child  Willyum  onto  his  hoss,  an'  you  get  that 
nigger  boy  onto  his  hoss,  an'  you  get  off  this  Hill. 
An'  as  you  go,  let  me  give  you  this  warnin'.  If 
you-all  ever  makes  a  moccasin  track  in  the  mud  of 
my  premises  ag'in,  I'll  fill  you  full  of  buckshot." 

"  *  An'  as  I  says,  to  show  the  veneration  in  which 
my  grandfather  is  held,  thar's  not  another  yeep 
out  o'  any  of  us.  With  my  father  in  the  lead,  we 
files  out  for  home  ;  an'  tharafter  the  eepisode  is 
never  mentioned. 

" '  An'  now,'  says  Colonel  Sterett,  *  as  we-all  is 
about  equipped  to  report  joodiciously  as  to  the 
merits  of  the  speshul  cask  of  Valley  Tan  we've 
been  samplin',  I'll  bring  my  narratif  to  the  closin' 
chapters  in  the  life  of  this  grand  old  man.  Thar's 
this  to  be  observed  :  The  Sterett  fam'ly  is  eminent 
for  two  things :  it  gets  everything  it  needs ;  an'  it 
never  gets  it  till  it  needs  it.  Does  it  need  a  gun,  or 


Colonel  Sterett's  Reminiscences*  127 

a  boss,  or  a  drink,  the  Sterett  fam'ly  proceeds  with 
the  round-up.  It  befalls  that  when  my  grandfather 
passes  his  eightieth  year,  he  decides  that  he  needs 
religion. 

"  *  "  It's  about  time,"  he  says,  "  for  me  to  begin 
layin'  up  a  treasure  above.  I'm  goin'  on  eighty- 
one  an'  my  luck  can't  last  forever." 

"  So  my  grandfather  he  sets  up  in  bed  an'  he 
perooses  them  scriptures  for  four  months.  I  tell 
you,  gents,  he  shorely  searches  that  holy  book  a 
whole  lot.  An'  then  he  puts  it  up  he'll  be  baptized. 
Also,  that  he'll  enter  down  into  the  water  an'  rise 
up  out  of  the  water  like  it's  blazoned  in  them  texts. 

" '  Seein'  she's  Janyooary  at  the  time,  with  two 
foot  of  snow  on  the  ground,  it  looks  like  my  grand 
father  will  have  to  postpone  them  rites.  But  he 
couldn't  be  bluffed.  My  grandfather  reaches  out  of 
bed  an'  he  rings  that  bell  I  tells  you-all  of,  an'  pro 
ceeds  to  convene  his  niggers.  He  commands  'em  to 
cut  down  a  big  whitewood  tree  that  lives  down  in  the 
bottoms,  hollow  out  the  butt  log  for  a  trough,  an* 
haul  her  up  alongside  the  r'ar  veranda. 

"  '  For  a  week  thar's  a  incessant  "  chip  !  chop  !  " 
of  the  axes ;  an'  then  with  six  yoke  of  steers,  the 
trough  is  brought  into  camp.  It's  long  enough  an* 
wide  enough  an'  deep  enough  to  swim  a  colt. 

"  *  The  day  for  the  baptizin'  is  set,  an'  the  Sterett 
fam'ly  comes  trackin'  in.  Thar's  two  hundred  of 
'em,  corral  count.  The  whole  outfit  stands  'round 
while  the  water  is  heatin'  for  to  dip  the  old  gent. 
My  father,  who  is  the  dep'ty  chief  an'  next  in  com- 


128  Wolfville  Days, 

mand,  is  tyrannizin*  about  an'  assoomin'  to  deal  the 
game. 

" '  Thar's  a  big  fire  at  which  they're  heatin'  the 
rocka  wherewith  to  raise  the  temperatoor  of  the 
water.  The  fire  is  onder  the  personal  charge  of  a 
faithful  old  nigger  named  Ben.  When  one  of  them 
stones  is  red  hot  Ben  takes  two  sticks  for  tongs  an' 
drops  it  into  the  trough.  Thar's  a  bile  an'  a  buzz 
an'  a  geyser  of  steam,  an'  now  ^n'  then  the  rock 
explodes  a  lot  an'  sends  the  water  spoutin'  to  the 
eaves.  It's  all  plenty  thrillin',  you  can  bet! 

"'  My  father,  as  I  states,  is  pervadin'  about,  so 
clothed  with  dignity,  bein'  after  my  grandfather 
the  next  chicken  on  the  roost,  that  you  can't  get 
near  enough  to  him  to  borry  a  plug  of  tobacco. 
Once  in  a  while  he'd  shasee  up  an'  stick  his  hand  in 
the  water.  It  would  be  too  hot,  mebby. 

"  *  "  Yere,  you  Ben  !"  he'd  roar.  "  What  be  you 
aimin'  at  ?  Do  you-all  want  to  kill  the  old  man  ? 
Do  you  think  you're  scaldin'  a  havvg?  " 

"  *  Then  this  yere  Ben  would  get  conscience- 
stricken  an'  pour  in  a  bar'l  or  two  of  cold  water. 
In  a  minute  my  father  would  test  it  ag'in  an'  say  : 

"  * "  Ben,  you  shorely  are  failin'  in  your  intellects. 
Yere  this  is  as  cold  as  ice ;  you'll  give  the  old  man 
a  chill." 

" '  Final,  however,  the  water  is  declared  right,  an* 
then  out  comes  a  brace  of  niggers,  packin'  my 
grandfather  in  a  blanket,  with  the  preacher  preevail- 
in'  over  all  as  offishul  floor-manager  of  the  festiv'ties. 
That's  how  it  ends :  my  grandfather  is  baptized  an* 


Colonel  Sterett's  Reminiscences*  129 

gets  religion  in  his  eighty-first  year,  A.  D. ;  an*  two 
days  later  he  sets  in  his  chips,  shoves  his  cha'r  back 
an'  goes  shoutin'  home. 

"  *  "  Be  I  certain  of  heaven  ?  "  he  says  to  the 
preacher,  when  he's  down  to  the  turn.  "  Be  I  winner 
accordin'  to  your  rooles  an'  tenets  ?  " 

"  «  "  Your  place  is  provided,"  says  the  preacher, 
that  a-way. 

"  *  "  If  it's  as  good  a  place  as  old  Kaintucky,  they 
shorely  ain't  goin'  to  have  no  fuss  nor  trouble  with 
me  ;  an'  that's  whatever  !  " 


CHAPTER  X. 
How  the  Dumb  Man  Rode* 

"  Now,  I  don't  reckon  none,"  remarked  the 
Old  Cattleman  with  a  confidential  air,  "  this  yere 
'  dumb  man  '  incident  ever  arises  to  my  mind  ag'in, 
if  it  ain't  for  a  gent  whose  trail  I  cuts  while  I'm 
projectin'  'round  the  post-office  for  letters. 

"  It's  this  mornin',  an'  I'm  gettin'  letters,  as  I 
states,  when  I  catches  this  old  party  sort  o'  beamin' 
on  me  frank  an'  free,  like  he's  shore  a  friendly 
Injun.  At  last  he  sa'nters  over  an*  remarks, 
'Whatever  is  your  callin',  pard?'  or  some  sech 
bluff  as  that. 

"  I  sees  he's  good  people  fast  enough ;  still  I 
allows  a  small,  brief  jolt  mebby  does  him  good. 

"'Well/  I  says,  intendin' to  let  him  know  I'm 
alive  an'  wakeful  that  a-way ;  '  well,  whatever  my 
callin'  is,  at  least  it  ain't  been  no  part  of  my 
bringin'  up  to  let  mere  strangers  stroll  into  the 
corral  an*  cinch  a  saddle  onto  me  for  a  conversa 
tional  canter,  jest  because  they're  disp'sitioned  that 
a-way.' 

"  '  No  offence  meant/  says  the  old  party,  an'  I 
observes  he  grows  red  an'  ashamed  plumb  up  to  his 
white  ha'r. 


How  the  Dumb  Man  Rode.  131 

"'Excuse  me,  amigo]  I  says,  handin'  out  my 
paw,  which  he  seizes  all  radiant  an'  soon,  *  I  ain't 
intendin'  nothin'  blunt,  nor  to  slam  no  door  on 
better  acquaintance,  but  when  you-all  ropes  at 
me  about  what  you  refers  to  as  my  "  callin'  "  that 
time,  I  ain't  jest  lookin'  for  a  stranger  to  take  seen 
interest  in  me,  an'  I'm  startled  into  bein'  onp'lite. 
I  tharfore  tenders  regrets,  an',  startin'  all  over, 
states  without  reserve  that  I'm  a  cow  man. 

"  *  An*  now,'  I  retorts,  further,  'merely  to  play  my 
hand  out,  an'  not  that  I  looks  to  take  a  trick  at 
all,  let  me  ask  what  pursoots  do  you  p'int  out  on 
as  a  pretext  for  livin'  ? ' 

"  '  Me  ?  '  says  the  old  party,  stabbin'  at  his  shirt 
bosom  with  his  thumb  ;  '  me  ?  I'm  a  scientist.' 

"  *  Which  the  news  is  exhilaratin'  an'  interestin',' 
I  says;  'shake  ag'in !  If  thar's  one  thing  I 
regyards  high,  it's  a  scientist.  Whatever  partic'lar 
wagon-track  do  you-all  follow  off,  ma}/  I  ask  ? ' 

"  It's  then  this  old  gent  an'  I  la'nches  into  a 
gen'ral  discussion  onder  the  head  of  mes'laneous 
business,  I  reckons,  an'  he  puts  it  up  his  long  suit, 
as  he  calls  it,  is  '  moral  epidemics.'  He  says  he's 
wrote  one  book  onto  'em,  an'  sw'ars  he'll  write 
another  if  nobody  heads  him  off  ;  the  same  bein'  on- 
likely.  As  he  sees  how  I'm  interested,  the  old  sport 
sets  down  an'  lays  it  out  to  me  how  sentiments  goes 
in  herds  an'  droves,  same  as  weather  an'  things  like 
that. 

"'Oneday  you  rolls  out  in  the  mornin','  this  old 
gent  declar's,  'an'  thar  you  reads  how  everybody 


132  Wolfville  Days. 

commits  sooicide.  Then  some  other  day  it's 
murder,  then  robbery,  an'  ag'in,  the  whole  round-up 
goes  to  holdin*  them  church  meetin's  an'  gettin' 
religion.  Them's  waves  ;  moral  epidemics,'  he  says. 

"  Which  this  don't  look  so  egreegious  none  as  a 
statement,  neither,  an*  so  after  pow-wowin'  a  lot, 
all  complacent  an'  genial,  I  tells  the  old  gent  he's 
got  a  good  game,  an'  I  thinks  myse'f  his  system 
has  p'ints.  At  this,  he  admits  he's  flattered  ;  an* 
then,  as  we're  gettin'  to  the  ends  of  our  lariats,  we 
tips  our  sombreros  to  each  other  an'  lets  it  go 
at  that.  To-morry  he's  goin'  to  confer  on  me  his 
book ;  which  I  means  to  read  it,  an*  then  I'll  savey 
more  about  his  little  play. 

"  But,"  continued  my  friend,  warm  with  his  new 
philosophy,  "  this  yere  is  all  preelim'nary,  an*  brings 
me  back  to  what  I  remarks  at  the  jump;  that 
what  that  old  gent  urges  recalls  this  dumb  an*  deef 
man  incident ;  which  it  sort  o'  backs  his  play. 
It's  a  time  when  a  passel  of  us  gets  overcome  by 
waves  of  sentiment  that  a-way,  an'  not  only  turns 
a  hoss-thief  loose  entire,  after  the  felon's  done 
been  run  down,  but  Boggs  waxes  that  sloppy  he 
lavishes  a  hoss  an'  saddle  onto  him ;  likewise 
sympathy,  an'  wishes  him  luck. 

"  The  whole  racket's  that  onnacheral  I  never  does 
quit  wonderin'  about  it ;  but  now  this  old  science 
sharp  expounds  his  theory  of  '  moral  epidemics,'  it 
gets  cl'ared  up  in  my  mind,  an'  I  reckons,  as  he 
says,  it's  shorely  one  of  them  waves. 

"  Tell  the   story  ?     Thar's  nothin'  much  to  said 


How  the  Dumb  Man  Rode*  133 

yarn,  only  the  onpreecedented  leeniency  wherewith 
we  winds  it  up.  In  the  first  place,  I  don't  know 
what  this  hoss-thief's  name  is,  for  he's  plum  deef 
an'  dumb,  an'  ain't  sayin'  a  word.  I  sees  him 
hoverin*  'round,  but  I  don't  say  nothin'  to  him.  I 
observes  him  once  or  twice  write  things  to  folks  he 
has  to  talk  with  on  a  piece  of  paper,  but  it's  too 
slow  a  racket  for  me,  too  much  like  conversin'  by 
freight  that  a-way,  an'  I  declines  to  stand  in  on  it. 
I  don't  like  to  write  well  enough  to  go  openin'  a 
correspondence  with  strangers  who's  deef  an'  dumb. 

"  When  he  first  dawns  on  the  camp,  he  has 
money,  moderate  at  least,  an'  he  gets  in  on  poker, 
an'  stud,  an'  other  devices  which  is  open  an'  com 
mon  ;  an'  gents  who's  with  him  at  the  time  says  he 
has  a  level  notion  of  hands,  an'  in  the  long  run, 
mebby,  amasses  a  little  wealth. 

"  While  I  ain't  payin'  much  heed  to  him,  I  do  hear 
towards  the  last  of  his  stay  as  how  he  goes  broke 
ag'inst  faro-bank.  But  as  gents  often  goes  broke 
ag'inst  faro-bank,  an'  as,  in  trooth,  I  tastes  sech 
reverses  once  or  twice  myse'f,  the  information  don't 
excite  me  none  at  the  time,  nor  later  on. 

"  It's  mighty  likely  some  little  space  since  this 
dumb  person  hits  camp,  an'  thar's  an  outfit  of  us 
ramblin'  'round  in  the  Red  Light,  which,  so  to 
speak,  is  the  Wolfville  Club,  an'  killin'  time  by 
talkin'.  Dave  Tutt  an'  Texas  Thompson  is  holdin* 
forth  at  each  other  on  the  efficacy  of  pray'r,  an* 
the  balance  of  us  is  bein'  edified. 

"  It  looks  like  Texas  has  been  tellin'  of  a  Mex- 


J34  Wolfville  Days. 

lean  he  sees  lynched  at  Laredo  one  time,  an'  how  a 
tender  gent  rings  in  some  orisons  before  ever  they 
swings  him  off.  Texas  objects  to  them  pray'rs  an' 
brands  'em  as  hypocrisies.  As  happens  frequent — 
for  both  is  powerful  debaters  that  a-way — Dave 
Tutt  locks  horns  with  Texas,  an'  they  both  prances 
'round  oratorical  at  each  other  mighty  entertainin'. 

"  '  Now  you  gents  onderstand,'  says  Texas 
Thompson,  *  I  ain't  sayin'  a  word  about  them 
pray'rs  as  mere  supplications.  I'm  yere  to  state  I 
regyards  'em  as  excellent,  an'  thar's  gents  at  that 
time  present  who's  experts  in  sech  appeals  an'  who 
knows  what  prayin'  is,  who  allows  that  for  fervency, 
bottom  an'  speed,  they  shorely  makes  the  record 
for  what  you  might  call  off-hand  pray'rs  in  South 
ern  Texas.  Thar  ain't  a  preacher  short  of  Waco  or 
Dallas  could  have  turned  a  smoother  trick.  But 
what  I  complains  of  is,  it's  onconsistent.' 

" '  However  is  prayin'  that  a-way  onconsistent, 
I'd  shorely  like  to  know?'  says  Tutt,  stackin*  in 
ag'in  Texas  plenty  scornful. 

"  *  Why,  this  a-way,'  says  Texas.  *  Yere's  a  gent 
who  assembles  with  his  peers  to  hang  a  Mexican. 
As  a  first  flash  outen  the  box,  he  puts  up  a  strong 
pray'r  talk  to  get  this  crim'nal  by  the  heavenly 
gate.  Now,  whatever  do  you  reckon  a  saint  who 
knows  his  business  is  goin'  to  say  to  that  ?  Yere 
stands  this  conceited  Laredo  party  recommendin* 
for  admission  on  high  a  Mexican  he's  he'pin'  to 
lynch  as  not  good  enough  for  Texas.  If  then1 
powers  above  ain't  allowin'  that  prayin'  party's 


How  the  Dumb  Man  Rode*  J3S 

got  his  nerve  with  him,  they  ain't  givin'  the  case 
the  study  which  is  shore  its  doo.' 

"'Which  I  don't  know!'  says  Tutt.  'I  don't 
accept  them  views  nohow.  Prayin'  is  like  goin' 
blind  in  poker.  All  you  do  is  hope  a  whole  lot, 
If  the  angels  takes  stock  in  your  applications,  well 
an'  good.  If  they  don't,  you  can  gamble  your 
spurs  they're  plenty  able  to  protect  themse'fs. 
All  you  can  do  is  file  them  supplications.  The 
angels  lets  'em  go  or  turns  'em  down  accordin'. 
Now,  I  holds  that  this  Laredo  sport  who  prays 
that  time  does  right.  Thar's  nothin'  like  a  show 
down  ;  an'  his  play,  since  he  volunteers  to  ride 
herd  on  the  Greaser's  soul,  is  to  do  all  he  knows, 
an'  win  out  if  he  can.' 

"  '  That's  whatever ! '  says  Dan  Boggs,  who's 
listenin'  full  of  interest,  an'  who  allows  he'll  butt  in 
on  the  talk.  '  I  j'ines  with  Tutt  in  this.  My 
notion  is,  when  it  comes  a  gent's  turn  to  pray,  let 
him  pray,  an'  not  go  pesterin'  himse'f  with  vain 
surmises  as  to  how  it's  goin'  to  strike  them  hosts 
on  high.  You  can  wager  you  ain't  goin'  to  ride 
'round  Omnipotence  none.  You  can  draw  up  to 
the  layout  of  life,  an'  from  the  cradle  to  the  grave, 
you'll  not  pick  up  no  sleepers  on  Providence  that 
a-way.  Now,  once,  when  I'm  over  across  the  Mo- 
gallon  Plateau,  I — ' 

"  But  we  never  does  hear  what  happens  to  Boggs 
that  time  over  across  the  Mogallon  Plateau  ;  for 
when  he's  that  far  along,  one  of  the  niggers  from 
the  corral  comes  scurry  in'  up  an'  asks  Texas 


136  Wolfvillc  Days. 

Thompson  does  he  lend  his  pinto  pony  an  houf 
back  to  the  party  who's  deef  an'  dumb. 

"  *  Which  I  shorely  don't,'  says  Texas.  *  You 
don't  aim  to  tell  me  none  he's  done  got  away  with 
my  pinto  hoss  ?  ' 

"  The  nigger  says  he  does.  He  announces  that 
mebby  an  hour  before,  this  party  comes  over  to 
the  corral,  makes  a  motion  or  two  with  his  hands, 
cinches  the  hull  onto  the  pinto,  an*  lines  out  for 
the  northeast  on  the  Silver  City  trail.  He's  been 
plumb  outen  sight  for  more'n  half  an  hour. 

"  '  Which  I  likes  that  ! '  says  Texas  Thompson. 
*  For  broad,  open-air,  noon-day  hoss-stealin',  I  offers 
even  money  this  dumb  gent's  enterprise  is  entitled 
to  the  red  ticket.' 

"  Which  we  ain't  standin*  thar  talkin'  long.  If 
thar's  one  reform  to  which  the  entire  West  devotes 
itse'f,  it's  breakin'  people  of  this  habit  of  hoss- 
stealin'.  It  ain't  no  time  when  four  of  us  is  off  on 
the  dumb  party's  trail,  an'  half  of  that  is  consoomed 
in  takin*  a  drink. 

"  Whyever  be  gents  in  the  West  so  sot  ag'in  hoss- 
thieves  ?  Son,  you  abides  in  a  region  at  once 
pop'lous  an*  fertile.  But  if  you  was  to  put  in  three 
months  on  a  cactus  desert,  with  water  holes  fifty 
miles  apart,  it  would  begin  to  glimmer  on  you  as 
to  what  it  means  to  find  yourse'f  afoot.  It  would 
come  over  you  like  a  landslide  that  the  party  who 
steals  your  hoss  would  have  improved  your  con 
dition  in  life  a  heap  if  he'd  played  his  hand  out  by 
shootin'  a  hole  through  your  heart. 


How  the  Dumb  Man  Rode*  13  7 

"  No,  I  ain't  in  no  sech  hurry  to  hang  people  for 
standin'  in  on  some  killin'.  Thar's  two  sides  to  a 
killin' ;  an'  if  deceased  is  framed  up  with  a  gun  all 
reg'lar  at  the  time,  it  goes  a  long  way  toward  excul- 
patin'  of  the  sport  who  outlives  him.  But  thar 
ain't  only  one  side  to  hoss-stealin',  an'  the  sooner 
the  party's  strung  up  or  plugged,  the  sooner  thar's 
a  vict'ry  for  the  right. 

"  As  I  remarks,  it  ain't  two  minutes  when  thar's 
four  of  us  gone  swarmin'  off  after  the  dumb  man 
who's  got  Texas  Thompson's  pinto  pony.  From 
the  tracks,  he  ain't  makin'  no  play  to  throw  us  off, 
for  he  maintains  a  straight-away  run  down  the 
Silver  City  trail,  an'  never  leaves  it  or  doubles  once. 

"  Runnin'  of  the  dumb  man  down  don't  turn  out 
no  arduous  task.  It's  doo  mainly,  however,  because 
the  pinto  sticks  a  cactus  thorn  in  its  hoof  an*  goes 
lame  in  less  time  tharafter  than  it  takes  to  turn  a 
jack. 

"  '  Hands  up/  says  Texas,  gettin*  the  drop  as  we 
swings  up  on  the  deef  an'  dumb  foogitive. 

"  But  thar's  no  need  of  sech  precautions,  as  the 
dumb  party  ain't  packin*  no  weepons — not  so  much 
as  a  knife. 

**  Thar's  nothin*  to  say,  no  talk  to  make,  when  we 
takes  him.  Texas  hefts  him  outen  the  saddle  an' 
ropes  his  elbows  behind  with  a  lariat. 

'"What  do  you-all  su'gest,  gents? *  says  Texas. 
'  I  s'pose  now  the  deecorous  way  is  to  go  on  with  this 
yere  aggressive  an'  energetic  person  to  them  pifion 
trees  ahead,  an'  hang  him  some  ? ' 


138  Wolfville  Days. 

"  '  Which  thar's  no  doubts  floatin*  in  anybody's 
mind  on  that  subject/  says  Dan  Boggs,  '  but  I'd 
shore  admire  to  know  who  this  party  is,  an'  where 
he's  headin'  to.  I  dislikes  to  stretch  the  neck  of 
strangers  that  a-way ;  an'  if  thar's  any  gent,  now, 
who  can  ask  this  yere  person  who  he  is,  an'  what 
he's  got  to  say,  I'd  take  it  as  a  favor,  personal,  if 
he'd  begin  makin'  of  the  needed  motions.' 

"  But  thar  ain't  none  of  us  can  institoote  them 
gestures;  an'  when  the  dumb  man,  on  his  side,  puts 
up  a  few  bluffs  with  his  fingers,  it's  a  heap  too  com 
plicated  for  us  as  a  means  of  makin'  statements. 

" '  I  shore  couldn't  tell,'  says  Dave  Tutt,  as  he 
sets  watchin'  the  dumb  man's  play,  *  whether  he's 
callin'  us  names  or  askin'  for  whiskey.' 

**  *  Which  if  we'd  thought  to  bring  some  station 
ery,'  says  Texas,  after  we-all  goes  through  our  war- 
bags  in  vain,  'we  might  open  some  successful 
negotiations  with  this  person.  As  it  is,  however, 
we're  plumb  up  ag'inst  it,  an'  I  reckon,  Boggs,  he'll 
have  to  hang  without  you  an'  him  bein'  formally  in- 
trodooced.' 

" '  Jest  the  same,  I  wishes,'  says  Dave  Tutt,  *  that 
Doc  Peets  or  Enright  was  along.  They'd  shore  dig 
somethin*  outen  this  citizen/ 

f  "  '  Mebby  he's  got  papers  in  his  wamus/  says 
Boggs,  '  which  onfolds  concernin'  him.  Go  through 
him,  Texas,  anyhow.' 

"  All  Texas  can  find  on  the  dumb  man  is  one 
letter  ;  the  postmark,  when  we  comes  to  decipher  the 
same,  shows  he  only  gets  it  that  mornin'.  Besides 


How  the  Dumb  Man  Rode,  139 

this  yere  single  missif  that  a-way,  thar  ain't  a  scrap 
of  nothin'  else  to  him  ;  nor  yet  no  wealth. 

"  '  Tell  us  what's  in  the  letter,'  says  Texas,  turnin' 
the  document  over  to  Boggs.  '  Read  her  out,  Dan  ; 
I'd  play  the  hand,  but  I  has  to  ride  herd  on  the 
culprit.' 

"  *  I  can't  read  it,'  says  Boggs,  handin*  the  note  to 
Tutt ;  '  I  can't  read  readin',  let  alone  writin'.  But 
I'm  free  to  say,  even  without  hearin'  that  document 
none,  that  I  shorely  hesitates  to  string  this  party  up. 
Bein'  tongueless,  an'  not  hearin'  a  lick  more'n 
adders,  somehow  he  keeps  appealin'  to  me  like  he's 
locoed.' 

"  '  Which  if  you  ever  has  the  pleasure  to  play  some 
poker  with  him,'  says  Tutt,  as  he  enfolds  the  paper, 
*  like  I  do  three  nights  ago,  you  wouldn't  be  an- 
noyin'  yourse'f  about  his  bein'  locoed.  I  finds  him 
plenty  deep  an'  wary,  not  to  say  plumb  crafty. 
Another  thing,  it's  plain  he  not  only  gets  letters, 
but  we-all  sees  him  write  about  his  drinks  to  Black 
Jack,  the  Red  Light  barkeep,  an*  sim'lar  plays.' 

"  By  this  time,  Tutt's  got  the  letter  open,  an'  is 
gettin*  ready  to  read.  The  dumb  man's  been 
standin*  thar  all  the  time,  with  his  arms  roped 
behind  him,  an'  lookin'  like  hope  has  died  ;  an' 
also  like  he  ain't  carin*  much  about  it  neither. 
When  Tutt  turns  open  the  letter,  I  notices  the 
tears  kind  o'  start  in  his  eyes,  same  as  if  he's  some 
affected  sentimental. 

"  *  Which  this  yere  commoonication  is  plenty 
brief,'  says  Tutt,  as  he  runs  his  eye  over  it.  *  She's 


H°  Wolfvillc  Days. 

dated  "  Casa  Grande,"  an'  reads  as  follows,  to 
wit  : 

"  '  "  Dear  Ben  :  Myra  is  dyin' ;  come  at  once.  A." 

"  '  Now,  whoever  do  you  reckon  this  yere  Myra 
is?'  asks  Tutt,  lookin'  'round.  'She's  cashin'  in, 
that's  obv'ous;  an'  I'm  puttin*  it  up  she's  mighty 
likely  a  wife  or  somethin'  of  this  yere  dumb  party.' 

"  '  That's  it,'  says  Boggs.  '  He  gets  this  word 
that  Myra's  goin'  over  the  big  divide,  an'  bein'  he's 
gone  broke  entire  on  faro-bank,  he  plunges  over  to 
the  corral  an'  rustles  Thompson's  hoss.  Onder  sech 
circumstances,  I  ain't  none  shore  he's  respons'ble. 
I  takes  it  thar  ain't  much  doubt  but  Myra's  his  wife 
that  a-way,  in  which  event  my  idee  is  he  only  bor- 
rys  Thompson's  pinto.  Which  nacherally,  as  I 
freely  concedes,  this  last  depends  on  Myra's  bein' 
his  wife.' 

"  '  Oh,  not  necessarily,'  says  Texas  Thompson  ; 
'thar's  a  heap  of  wives  who  don't  jestify  hoss- 
stealin'  a  little  bit.  Now  I  plays  it  open,  Myra's 
this  dumb  gent's  mother,  an*  on  sech  a  theery  an* 
that  alone,  I  removes  the  lariat  from  his  arms  an* 
throws  him  loose.  But  don't  try  to  run  no  wife 
bluff  on  me  ;  I've  been  through  the  wife  question 
with  a  blazin'  pine-knot  in  my  hand,  an'  thar's 
nothin'  worth  while  concealed  tharin.' 

"'  Which  I  adopts  the  amendment,'  says  Boggs, 
'an*  on  second  thought,  I  strings  my  chips  with 
Texas,  that  this  yere  Myra's  his  mother.  I've  got 
the  money  that  says  so.' 

"  '  At   any    rate,'  says   Tutt,  '  from   all  I  sees,  I 


How  the  Dumb  Man  Rode.  141 

reckons  it's  the  general  notion  that  we  calls  this 
thing  a  draw.  We  can't  afford  to  go  makin'  a  pree- 
cedent  of  hangin'  a  gent  for  hoss-stealin'  who's  only 
doin'  his  best  to  be  present  at  this  Myra's  fooneral, 
whoever  she  may  be.  It's  a  heap  disgustin',  how 
ever,  that  we  can't  open  up  a  talk  with  this  party. 
Which  I  now  notes  by  the  address  his  name  is 
Mclntyre/ 

"  An*  so  it  turns  out  that  in  no  time,  from  four 
gents  who's  dead  set  to  hang  this  dumb  man  as  a 
hoss-thief,  we  turns  into  a  sympathetic  outfit  which 
is  diggin'  holes  for  his  escape.  It  all  dovetails  in 
with  what  my  scientist  says  this  mornin'  about  them 
*  moral  epidemics/  an'  things  goin'  that  a-way  in 
waves.  For,  after  all,  Myra  or  no  Myra,  this  yere 
dumb  man  steals  that  pinto  hoss. 

"  However,  whether  it's  right  or  wrong,  we  turns 
the  dumb  man  free.  Not  only  that,  but  Boggs  gets 
out  of  the  saddle  an*  gives  him  his  pony  to  pursoo 
them  rambles  with. 

"  '  I  gives  it  to  him  because  it's  the  best  pony  in 
the  outfit/  says  Boggs,  lookin'  savage  at  us,  as  he 
puts  the  bridle  in  the  dumb  gent's  hands.  '  It  can 
run  like  a  antelope,  that  pony  can ;  an'  that's  why 
I  donates  it  to  this  dumb  party.  Once  he's  started, 
even  if  we-all  changes  our  moods,  he's  shore  an' 
safe  away  for  good.  Moreover,  a  gent  whose 
mother's  dyin',  can't  have  too  good  a  hoss.  If  he 
don't  step  on  no  more  cactus,  an'  half  rides,  he's 
doo  to  go  chargin*  into  Casa  Grande  before  they 
loses  Myra,  easy/  " 


CHAPTER  XL 
How  Prince  Hal  Got  Help. 

"  Come  yere,  you  boy  Tom."  It  was  the  Old 
Cattleman  addressing  his  black  satellite.  "  Stam 
pede  up  to  them  rooms  of  mine  an'  fetch  me  my  hat ; 
the  one  with  the  snakeskin  band.  My  head  ain't 
feelin'  none  too  well,  owin'  to  the  barkeep  of  this 
hostelry  changin'  my  drinks,  an'  that  rattlesnake 
band  oughter  absorb  them  aches  an'  clar'fy  my  roonu 
inations  a  heap.  Now,  vam0S/"lie  continued,  as 
Tom  seemed  to  hesitate,  "  the  big  Stetson  with  the 
snakeskin  onto  it. 

"  An'  how  be  you  stackin'  up  yours'ef  ?  "  observed 
the  old  gentleman,  turning  to  me  as  his  dark  agent 
vanished  in  quest  of  head-gear.  "  Which  you 
shorely  looks  as  worn  an'  weary  as  a  calf  jest  branded. 
It'll  do  you  good  to  walk  a  lot ;  better  come  with 
me.  I  sort  o'  orig'nates  the  notion  that  I'll  go 
swarmin'  about  permiscus  this  mornin'  for  a  hour 
or  so,  an  cirk'late  my  blood,  an'  you-all  is  welcome 
to  attach  yourse'f  to  the  scheme.  Thar's  nothin' 
like  exercise,  that  a-way,  as  Grief  Mudlow  allows 
when  he  urges  his  wife  to  take  in  wash  in'.  You've 
done  heard  of  Grief  Mudlow,  the  laziest  maverick 
in  Tennessee  ?  " 


How  Prince  Hal  Got  Help*  143 

I  gave  my  word  that  not  so  much  as  a  rumor  of 
the  person  Mudlow  had  reached  me.  My  friend 
expressed  surprise.  It  was  now  that  the  black  boy 
Tom  came  up  with  the  desired  hat.  Tom  made  his 
approach  with  a  queer  backward  and  forward  shuffle, 
crooning  to  himself  the  while  : 

"  Rain  come  wet  me,  sun  come  dry  me, 
Take  keer,  white  man,  don't  come  nigh  me." 

"  Stop  that  double-shufflin*  an*  wing  dancin'," 
remonstrated  the  old  gentleman  severely,  as  he  took 
the  hat  and  fixed  it  on  his  head.  "  I  don't  want  no 
frivolities  an'  merry-makin's  'round  me.  Which 
you're  always  jumpin'  an'  dancin'  like  one  of  these 
yere  snapjack  bugs.  I  ain't  aimin'  at  pompousness 
none,  but  thar's  a  sobriety  goes  with  them  years  of 
mine  which  I  proposes  to  maintain  if  I  has  to  do  it 
with  a  blacksnake  whip.  So  you-all  boy  Tom,  you 
look  out  a  whole  lot !  I'm  goin*  to  break  you  of 
them  hurdy-gurdy  tendencies,  if  I  has  to  make  you 
wear  hobbles  an*  frale  the  duds  off  your  back 
besides." 

Tom  smiled  toothfully,  yet  in  confident  fashion, 
as  one  who  knows  his  master  and  is  not  afraid. 

"  So  you  never  hears  of  Grief  Mudlow  ?  "  he  contin 
ued,  as  we  strolled  abroad  on  our  walk.  "  I  reckons 
mebby  you  has,  for  they  shore  puts  Grief  into  a 
book  once,  commemoratm'  of  his  laziness.  How 
lazy  is  he  ?  Well,  son,  he  could  beat  Mexicans  an' 
let  'em  deal.  He's  raised  away  off  east,  over  among 


i44  Wolfville  Days* 

the  knobs  of  old  Knox  County,  Grief  is,  an'  he's 
that  lazy  he  has  to  leave  it  on  account  of  the  hills. 

"  '  She's  too  noomerous  in  them  steeps  an'  deecliv'- 
ties,'  says  Grief.  '  What  I  needs  is  a  landscape 
where  the  prevailin'  feacher  is  the  hor'zontal.  I  was 
shorely  born  with  a  yearn  in'  for  the  level  ground.' 
An'  so  Grief  moves  his  camp  down  on  the  river 
bottoms,  where  thar  ain't  no  hills. 

"  He's  that  mis'rable  idle  an'  shiftless,  this  yere 
Grief  is,  that  once  he  starts  huntin'  an*  then  decides 
he  won't.  Grief  lays  down  by  the  aige  of  the  branch, 
with  his  moccasins  towards  the  water.  It  starts  in 
to  rain,  an'  the  storm  prounces  down  on  Grief  like 
a  mink  on  a  settin'  hen.  One  of  his  pards  sees 
him  across  the  branch  an*  thinks  he's  asleep.  So  he 
shouts  an'  yells  at  him. 

"  '  Whoopee,  Grief ! '  he  sings  over  to  where  Grief's 
layin'  all  quiled  up  same  as  a  water-moccasin  snake, 
an'  the  rain  peltin'  into  him  like  etarnal  wrath  ; '  wake 
up  thar  an'  crawl  for  cover  ! ' 

"  '  I'm  awake,'  says  Grief. 

"  *  Well,  why  don't  you  get  outen  the  rain  ?  * 

" '  I'm  all  wet  now  an'  the  rain  don't  do  no  hurt,' 
says  Grief. 

"  An'  this  yere  lazy  Grief  Mudlow  keeps  on  layin* 
thar.  It  ain't  no  time  when  the  branch  begins  to 
raise  ;  the  water  crawls  up  about  Grief's  feet.  So 
his  pard  shouts  at  him  some  more : 

"  *  Whoopee,  you  Grief  ag'in  ! '  he  says.  *  If  you 
don't  pull  your  freight,  the  branch'll  get  you.  It'* 
done  riz  over  the  stock  of  your  rifle/ 


How  Prince  Hal  Got  Help.  145 

" '  Water  won't  hurt  the  wood  none,'  says  Grief. 

"'You  Grief  over  thar!'  roars  the  other  after 
awhile  ;  '  your  feet  an'  laigs  is  half  into  the  branch, 
an'  the  water's  got  up  to  the  lock  of  your  gun.' 

"'Thar's  no  load  in  the  gun/  says  Grief,  still 
a-layin',  *  an*  besides  she  needs  washin'  out.  As  for 
them  feet  an'  laigs,  I  never  catches  cold/ 

"  An'  thar  that  ornery  Grief  reposes,  too  plumb 
lazy  to  move,  while  the  branch  creeps  up  about  him. 
It's  crope  up  so  high,  final,  that  his  y'ears  an'  the 
back  of  his  head  is  in  it.  All  Grief  does  is  sort  o' 
lift  his  chin  an'  lay  squar',  to  keep  his  nose  out  so's 
he  can  breathe. 

"  An'  he  shorely  beats  the  game  ;  for  the  rain 
ceases,  an'  the  branch  don't  rise  no  higher.  This 
yere  Grief  lays  thar  ontil  the  branch  runs  down  an' 
he's  high  an'  dry  ag'in,  an'  then  the  sun  shines  out 
an'  dries  his  clothes.  It's  that  same  night  when  Grief 
has  drug  himse'f  home  to  supper,  he  says  to  his 
wife,  'Thar's  nothin'  like  exercise/  an'  then  counsels 
that  lady  over  his  corn  pone  an'  chitlins  to  take  in 
washin'  like  I  relates." 

We  walked  on  in  mute  consideration  of  the 
extraordinary  indolence  of  the  worthless  Mudlow. 
Our  silence  obtained  for  full  ten  minutes.  Then  I 
proposed  "  courage  "  as  a  subject,  and  put  a  ques 
tion. 

"  Thar's  fifty  kinds  of  courage,"  responded  my 
companion,  "  an'  a  gent  who's  plumb  weak  an' 
craven,  that  a-way,  onder  certain  circumstances,  is 
as  full  of  sand  as  the  bed  of  the  Arkansaw  onder 


146  Wolfville  Days* 

others.  Tharrs  boss-back  courage  an*  thar's  foot 
courage,  thar's  day  courage  an'  night  courage,  thar's 
gun  courage  an'  knife  courage,  an'  no  end  of  courages 
besides.  An*  then  thar's  the  courage  of  vanity. 
More'n  once,  when  I'm  younger,  I'm  swept  down 
by  this  last  form  of  heroism,  an'  I  even  recalls  how 
in  a  sperit  of  vainglory  I  rides  a  buffalo  bull.  I 
tells  you,  son,  that  while  that  frantic  buffalo  is 
squanderin'  about  the  plains  that  time,  an'  me  onto 
him,  he  feels  a  mighty  sight  like  the  ridge  of  all 
the  yooniverse.  How  does  it  end  ?  It's  too  long 
a  tale  to  tell  walkin'  an'  without  reecooperatifs; 
suffice  it  that  it  ends  disastrous.  I  shall  never  ride 
no  buffalo  ag'in,  leastwise  without  a  saddle,  onless 
it's  a  speshul  o'casion. 

"  No,  indeed,  that  word  '  courage '  has  to  be 
defined  new  for  each  case.  Thar's  old  Tom  Harris 
over  on  the  Canadian.  I  beholds  Tom  one  time  at 
Tascosa  do  the  most  b'ar-faced  trick  ;  one  which 
most  sports  of  common  sens'bilities  would  have 
shrunk  from.  Thar's  a  warrant  out  for  Tom,  an' 
Jim  East  the  sheriff  puts  his  gun  on  Tom  when 
Tom's  lookin'  t'other  way. 

"  '  See  yere,  Harris ! '  says  East,  that  a-way. 

"  Tom  wheels,  an*  is  lookin'  into  the  mouth  of 
East's  six-shooter  not  a  yard  off. 

"  '  Put  up  your  hands  ! '  says  East. 

11  But  Tom  don't.  He  looks  over  the  gun  into 
East's  eye  ;  an'  he  freezes  him.  Then  slow  an' 
delib'rate,  an*  glarin'  like  a  mountain  lion  at  East, 
Tom  goes  back  after  his  Colt's  an'  pulls  it.  He  lays 


How  Prince  Hal  Got  Help,  147 

her  alongside  of  East's  with  the  muzzle  p'intin*  at 
East's  eye.  An'  thar  they  stands. 

"  *  You  don't  dar'  shoot !  '  says  Tom  ;  an'  East 
don't. 

"  They  breaks  away  an'  no  powder  burned  ;  Tom 
stands  East  off. 

"  *  Warrant  or  no  warrant/  says  Tom,  '  all  the 
sheriffs  that  ever  jingles  a  spur  in  the  Panhandle 
country,  can't  take  me  !  Nor  all  the  rangers 
neither  ! '  An'  they  shore  couldn't. 

"  Now  this  yere  break-away  of  Tom's,  when  East 
gets  the  drop  that  time,  takes  courage.  It  ain't 
one  gent  in  a  thousand  who  could  make  that  trip 
but  Tom.  An'  yet  this  yere  Tom  is  feared  of  a 
dark  room. 

"  Take  Injuns ; — give  'em  their  doo,  even  if  we 
ain't  got  room  for  them  miscreants  in  our  hearts. 
On  his  lines  an'  at  his  games,  a  Injun  is  as  clean 
strain  as  they  makes.  He's  got  courage,  an'  can 
die  without  battin'  an  eye  or  waggin'  a  y'ear,  once 
it's  come  his  turn.  An'  the  squaws  is  as  cold  a 
prop'sition  as  the  bucks.  After  a  fight  with  them 
savages,  when  you  goes  'round  to  count  up  an'  skin 
the  game,  you  finds  most  as  many  squaws  lyin* 
about,  an'  bullets  through  'em,  as  you  finds  bucks. 

"  Courage  is  sometimes  knowledge,  sometimes 
Ignorance ;  sometimes  courage  is  desp'ration,  an' 
then  ag'in  it's  innocence. 

"  Once,  about  two  miles  off,  when  I'm  on  the 
Staked  Plains,  an'  near  the  aige  where  thar's 
pieces  of  broken  rock,  I  observes  a  Mexican  on  foot, 


148  Wolfville  Days. 

frantically  chunkin*  up  somethin*.  He's  left  his 
pony  standin'  off  a  little,  an'  has  with  him  a  mighty 
noisy  form  of  some  low  kind  of  mongrel  dog,  this 
latter  standin'  in  to  worry  whatever  it  is  the  Mexi 
can's  chunkin'  at,  that  a-way.  I  rides  over  to 
investigate  the  war-jig;  an'  I'm  a  mesquite  digger! 
if  this  yere  transplanted  Castillian  ain't  done  up  a 
full-grown  wild  cat  !  It's  jest  coughin'  its  last 
when  I  arrives.  Son,  I  wouldn't  have  opened  a 
game  on  that  feline — the  same  bein'  as  big  as  a  coy 
ote,  an'  as  thoroughly  organized  for  trouble  as  a 
gatling — with  anythin'  more  puny  than  a  Win 
chester.  An'  yet  that  guileless  Mexican  lays  him 
out  with  rocks,  and  regyards  sech  feats  as  trivial. 
An  American,  too,  by  merely  growlin'  towards  this 
Mexican,  would  make  him  quit  out  like  a  jack 
rabbit. 

"  As  I  observes  prior,  courage  is  frequent  the 
froots  of  what  a  gent  don't  know.  Take  grizzly 
b'ars.  Back  fifty  years,  when  them  squirrel  rifles 
is  preevalent  ;  when  a  acorn  shell  holds  a  charge  of 
powder,  an'  bullets  runs  as  light  an'  little  as  sixty- 
four  to  the  pound,  why  son  !  you-all  could  shoot  up 
a  grizzly  till  sundown  an'  hardly  gain  his  disdain. 
It's  a  fluke  if  you  downs  one.  That  sport  who  can 
show  a  set  of  grizzly  b'ar  claws,  them  times,  has 
fame.  They're  as  good  as  a  bank  account,  them 
claws  be,  an'  entitles  said  party  to  credit  in  dance 
hall,  bar  room  an'  store,  by  merely  slammin'  'em  on 
the  counter. 

"  At  that   time   the   grizzly   b'ar    has    courage. 


How  Prince  Hal  Got  Help*  149 

Whyever  does  he  have  it,  you  asks  ?  Because  you 
couldn't  stop  him  ;  he's  out  of  hoomanity's  reach — 
a  sort  o'  Alexander  Selkirk  of  a  b'ar,  an'  you  couldn't 
win  from  him.  In  them  epocks,  the  grizzly  b'ar 
treats  a  gent  contemptuous.  He  swats  him,  or  he 
claws  him,  or  he  hugs  him,  or  he  crunches  him,  or 
he  quits  him  accordin'  to  his  moods,  or  the  number 
of  them  engagements  which  is  pressin'  on  him  at  the 
time.  An'  the  last  thing  he  considers  is  the  feelin's 
of  that  partic'lar  party  he's  dallyin'  with.  Now, 
however,  all  is  changed.  Thar's  rifles,  burnin'  four 
inches  of  this  yere  fulminatin'  powder,  that  can 
chuck  a  bullet  through  a  foot  of  green  oak.  Wisely 
directed,  they  lets  sunshine  through  a  grizzly  b'ar 
like  he's  a  pane  of  glass.  An',  son,  them  b'ars  is 
plumb  onto  the  play. 

"  What's  the  finish  ?  To-day  you  can't  get  clost 
enough  to  a  grizzly  to  hand  him  a  ripe  peach. 
Let  him  glimpse  or  smell  a  white  man,  an'  he  goes 
scatterin'  off  across  hill  an'  canyon  like  a  quart  of 
licker  among  forty  men.  They're  shore  apprehen- 
sife  of  them  big  bullets  an'  hard-hittin'  guns,  them 
b'ars  is  ;  an'  they  wouldn't  listen  to  you,  even  if 
you  talks  nothin'  but  bee-tree  an'  gives  a  bond  to 
keep  the  peace  besides.  Yes,  sir  ;  the  day  when 
the  grizzly  b'ar  will  stand  without  hitchin'  has  dee- 
parted  the  calendar  a  whole  lot.  They  no  longer 
attempts  insolent  an'  coarse  familiar'ties  with  folks. 
Instead  of  regyardin'  a  rifle  as  a  rotton  cornstalk  in 
disguise,  they're  as  gun-shy  as  a  female  institoote. 
Big  b'ars  an'  little  b'ars,  it's  all  sim'lar  ;  for  the  old 


150  Wolfville  Days, 

ones  tells  it  to  the  young,  an'  the  lesson  is  spread 
throughout  the  entire  nation  of  b'ars.  An'  yere's 
where  you  observes,  enlightenment  that  a-way 
means  a-weakenin'  of  grizzly-b'ar  courage. 

"  What's  that,  son  ?  You-all  thinks  my  stories 
smell  some  tall !  You  expresses  doubts  about 
anamiles  conversin'  with  one  another?  That's 
where  you're  ignorant.  All  anamiles  talks ;  they 
commoonicates  the  news  to  one  another  like  hoo- 
mans.  When  I've  been  freightin'  from  Dodge 
down  towards  the  Canadian,  I  had  a  eight-mule 
team.  As  shore  as  we're  walkin' — as  shore  as  I'm 
pinin'  for  a  drink,  I've  listened  to  them  mules  gos 
sip  by  the  hour  as  we  swings  along  the  trail.  Lots 
of  times  I  saveys  what  they  says.  Once  I  hears 
the  off-leader  tell  his  mate  that  the  jockey  stick  is 
sawin'  him  onder  the  chin.  I  investigates  an'  finds 
the  complaint  troo  an'  relieves  him.  The  nigh 
swing  mule  is  a  wit ;  an'  all  day  long  he'd  be  throw- 
in*  off  remarks  that  keeps  a  ripple  of  laughter  goin' 
up  an'  down  the  team.  You-all  finds  trouble  cred- 
itin'  them  statements.  Fact,  jest  the  same.  I've 
laughed  at  the  jokes  of  that  swing  mule  myse'f; 
an'  even  Jerry,  the  off  wheeler,  who's  a  cynic  that 
a-way,  couldn't  repress  a  smile.  Shore !  anamiles 
talks  all  the  time  ;  it's  only  that  we-all  hoomans 
ain't  eddicated  to  onderstand. 

"  Speakin'  of  beasts  talkin',  let  me  impart  to  you 
of  what  passes  before  my  eyes  over  on  the  Caliente. 
In  the  first  place,  I'll  so  far  illoomine  your  mind 
as  to  tell  you  that  cattle,  same  as  people — an* 


How  Prince  Hal  Got  Help.  151 

speshully  mountain  cattle,  where  the  winds  an 
snows  don't  get  to  drive  'em  an'  drift  'em  south — 
lives  all  their  lives  in  the  same  places,  year  after 
year;  an'  as  you  rides  your  ranges,  you're  allers 
meetin'  up  with  the  same  old  cattle  in  the  same 
canyons.  They  never  moves,  once  they  selects  a 
home. 

"  As  I  observes,  I've  got  a  camp  on  the  Caliente. 
Thar'sten  ponies  in  my  bunch,  as  I'm  saddlin' three 
a  day  an'  coverin'  a  considerable  deal  of  range  in 
my  ridin'.  Seein'  as  I'm  camped  yere  some  six 
months,  I  makes  the  aquaintance  of  the  cattle  for 
over  twenty  miles  'round.  Among  others,  thar's  a 
giant  bull  in  Long's  Canyon — he's  shorely  as  big  as 
a  log  house.  Him  an'  me  is  partic'lar  friends,  only 
I  don't  track  up  on  him  more  frequent  than  onct  a 
week,  as  he's  miles  from  my  camp.  I  almost  for 
gets  to  say  that  with  this  yere  Goliath  bull  is  a 
milk-white  steer,  with  long,  slim  horns  an'  a  face 
which  is  the  combined  home  of  vain  conceit  an' 
utter  witlessness.  This  milky  an'  semi-ediotic  steer 
is  a  most  abject  admirer  of  the  Goliath  bull,  an* 
they're  allers  together.  As  I  states,  this  mountain 
of  a  bull  an'  his  weak-minded  follower  lives  in 
Long's  Canyon. 

"  Thar's  two  more  bulls,  the  same  bein',  as  Col 
onel  Sterett  would  say,  also  '  persons  of  this  yere 
dramy.'  One  is  a  five-year-old  who  abides  on  the 
upper  Red  River ;  an'  the  other,  who  is  only  a 
three-year-old,  hangs  out  on  the  Caliente  in  the 
vicinity  of  my  camp. 


152  Wolfville  Days. 

"  Which  since  I've  got  to  talk  of  an'  concernin1 
them  anamiles,  I  might  as  well  give  'em  their 
proper  names.  They  gets  these  last  all  reg'lar 
from  a  play-actor  party  who  comes  swarmin'  into 
the  hills  while  I'm  thar  to  try  the  pine  trees  on  his 
'  tooberclosis/  as  he  describes  said  malady,  an* 
whose  weakness  is  to  saw  off  cognomens  on  every- 
thin'  he  sees.  As  fast  as  he's  introdooced  to  'em, 
this  actor  sport  names  the  Long's  Canyon  bull 
'FalstafT;  the  Red  River  five-year-old  'Hotspur/ 
bein'  he's  plumb  b'lligerent  an'  allers  makin'  war 
medicine;  while  the  little  three-year-old,  who  in 
habits  about  my  camp  in  the  Caliente,  he  addresses 
as  '  Prince  Hal.'  The  fool  of  a  white  steer  that's 
worshippin'  about  'Falstaff'  gets  named  'Pistol,' 
although  thar's  mighty  little  about  the  weak-kneed 
humbug  to  remind  you  of  anythin'  as  vehement  as 
a  gun.  Falstaff,  Pistol,  Hotspur  an'  Prince  Hal ; 
them's  the  titles  this  dramatist  confers  on  said  cat 
tle. 

"  Which  the  West  is  a  great  place  to  dig  out  new 
appellations  that  a-way.  Thar's  a  gentle-minded 
party  comes  soarin*  down  on  Wolfville  one  evenin'. 
No,  he  don't  own  no  real  business  to  transact  ;  he's 
out  to  have  a  heart-to-heart  interview  with  the  great 
Southwest,  is  the  way  he  expounds  the  objects  of 
his  search. 

"  '  An'  he's  plenty  tender/  says  Black  Jack,  who's 
barkeep  at  the  Red  Light.  '  He  comes  pushin* 
along  in  yere  this  mornin';  an*  what  do  you-all 
reckon  now  he  wants.  Asks  for  ice  !  Now  what- 


How  Prince  Hal  Got  Help,  153 

ever  do  you  make  of  it !  Ice  in  August,  an'  within 
forty  miles  of  the  Mexico  line  at  that.  "  Pard,"  I 
says,  "  we're  on  the  confines  of  the  tropics ;  an' 
while  old  Arizona  is  some  queer,  an'  we  digs  for 
wood  an'  climbs  for  water,  an'  indulges  in  much 
that  is  morally  an'  physically  the  teetotal  reverse 
of  right-side-up-with-care,  so  far  in  our  meanderin's 
we  ain't  oncovered  no  glaciers  nor  cut  the  trail  of 
any  ice.  Which  if  you've  brought  snowshoes  with 
you  now,  or  been  figgerin*  on  a  Arizona  sleighride, 
you're  settin'  in  hard  luck." 

"  Jest  as  Black  Jack  gets  that  far  in  them  state 
ments,  this  yere  tenderfoot  shows  in  the  door. 

"  '  Be  you  a  resident  of  Wolfville  ?  '  asks  this 
shorthorn  of  Dave  Tutt. 

" '  I'm  one  of  the  seven  orig'nal  wolves,'  says 
Tutt. 

" '  Yere's  my  kyard,'  says  the  shorthorn,  an'  he 
beams  on  Dave  in  a  wide  an'  balmy  way. 

"'Archibald  Willingham  De  Graffenreid  Butt,' 
says  Dave,  readin'  off  the  kyard.  Then  Dave  goes 
up  to  the  side,  an'  all  solemn  an'  grave,  pins  the 
kyard  to  the  board  with  his  bowie-knife.  '  Archi 
bald  Willingham  De  Graffenreid  Butt,'  an'  Dave 
repeats  the  words  plumb  careful.  '  That's  your  full 
an'  c'rrect  name,  is  it  ?  ' 

"  The  shorthorn  allows  it  is,  an'  surveys  Dave  in 
a  woozy  way  like  he  ain't  informed  none  of  the 
meanin'  of  these  yere  manoovers. 

"  '  Did  you-all  come  through  Tucson  with  thi? 
name  ?  '  asks  Dave. 


154  Wolfville  Days* 

"  He  says  he  does. 

" '  An'  wasn't  nothin'  said  or  done  about  it  i> ' 
demands  Dave;  '  don't  them  Tucson  sports  take  no 
action  ?  ' 

"  He  says  nothin'  is  done. 

"'  It's  as  I  fears,'  says  Dave,  shakin'  his  head  a 
heap  loogubrious,  '  that  Tucson  outfit  is  morally 
goin*  to  waste.  It's  worse  than  careless  ;  it's  callous. 
That's  whatever  ;  that  camp  is  callous.  Was  you 
aimin'  to  stay  for  long  in  Wolfville  with  this  yere 
title?'  asks  Dave  at  last. 

"  The  shorthorn  mentions  a  week. 

" '  This  yere  Wolfville,'  explains  Dave,  *  is  too 
small  for  all  that  name.  Archibald  Willingham 
De  Graffenreid  Butt !  It  shorely  sounds  like  a  hoss 
in  a  dance  hall.  But  it's  too  long  for  Wolfville,  an' 
Wolfville  even  do  her  best.  One  end  of  that  name  is 
bound  to  protrood.  Or  else  it  gets  all  brunkled  up 
like  a  long  nigger  in  a  short  bed.  However,' goes  on 
Dave,  as  he  notes  the  shorthorn  lookin'  a  little 
dizzy,  '  don't  lose  heart.  We  does  the  best  we  can. 
I  likes  your  looks,  an'  shall  come  somewhat  to  your 
rescoo  myse'f  in  your  present  troubles.  Gents,'  an* 
Dave  turns  to  where  Boggs  an'  Cherokee  an' 
Texas  Thompson  is  listenin',  '  I  moves  you  we  sus 
pends  the  rooles,  an'  re-names  this  excellent  an* 
well-meanin'  maverick,  "  Butcherknife  Bill."  ' 

"  '  I  seconds  the  motion,'  says  Boggs.  '  Butcher- 
knife  Bill  is  a  neat  an'  compact  name.  I  congratu 
lates  our  visitin'  friend  from  the  East  on  the  ease 
wherewith  he  wins  it  out.  I  would  only  make  one 


How  Prince  Hal  Got  Help.  155 

suggestion,  the  same  bein'  in  the  nacher  of  amend 
ments  to  the  orig'nal  resolootion,  an'  which  is,  that 
in  all  games  of  short  kyards,  or  at  sech  times  as 
we-all  issues  invitations  to  drink,  or  at  any  other 
epock  when  time  should  be  saved  an'  quick  action, 
is  desir'ble,  said  cognomen  may  legally  be  redooced' 
to  "  Butch."  ' 

"  '  Thar  bein'  no  objections/  says  Tutt,  *  it  is  re- 
gyarded  as  the  sense  of  the  meetin'  that  this  yere 
visitin'  sharp  from  the  States,  yeretofore  clogged  in 
his  flight  by  the  name  of  Archibald  Willingham  De 
Graffenreid  Butt,  be  yereafter  known  as  "  Butcher- 
knife  Bill  "  ;  or  failin'  leesure  for  the  full  name,  as 
"  Butch,"  or  both  at  the  discretion  of  the  co't,  with 
the  drinks  on  Butch  as  the  gent  now  profitin*  by 
this  play.  Barkeep,  set  up  all  your  bottles  an'  c'l- 
lect  from  Butch.' 

"  But  to  go  back  to  my  long-ago  camp  on  the  Cali- 
ente.  Prince  Hal  is  a  polished  an'  p'lite  sort  o' ana- 
mile.  The  second  day  after  I  pitches  camp,  Prince 
Hal  shows  up.  He  paws  the  grass,  an'  declar's 
himse'f,  an'  gives  notice  that  while  I'm  plumb  wel 
come,  he  wants  it  onderstood  that  he's  party  of  the 
first  part  in  that  valley,  an'  aims  to  so  continyoo. 
As  I  at  once  agrees  to  his  claims,  he  is  pacified  ; 
then  he  counts  up  the  camp  like  he's  sizin'  up  the 
plunder.  It's  at  this  point  I  signs  Prince  Hal  as 
my  friend  for  life  by  givin'  him  about  a  foot  of 
bacon-skin.  He  stands  an'  chews  on  that  bacon- 
skin  for  two  hours  ;  an'  thar's  heaven  in  his  looks. 

f(  It  gets  so  Prince  Hal  puts   in  all  his   spar'  time 


156  Wolfville  Days. 

at  my  camp.  An'  I  donates  flapjacks,  bacon-skins 
an*  food  comforts  yeretofore  onknown  to  Prince 
Hal.  He  regyards  that  camp  of  mine  as  openin'  a 
new  era  on  the  Caliente. 

"  When  not  otherwise  engaged,  Prince  Hal  stands 
in  to  curry  my  ponies  with  his  tongue.  The  one 
he'd  be  workin'  on  would  plant  himse'f  rigid, 
with  y'ears  drooped,  eyes  shet,  an'  tail  a-quiverin' ; 
an'  you-all  could  see  that  Prince  Hal,  with  his 
rough  tongue,  is  jest  burnin'  up  that  bronco  from 
foretop  to  fetlocks  with  the  joy  of  them  attentions. 
When  Prince  Hal  has  been  speshul  friendly,  I'd 
pass  him  out  a  plug  of  Climax  tobacco.  Sick? 
Never  once !  It  merely  elevates  Prince  Hal's 
sperits  in  a  mellow  way,  that  tobacco  does ;  makes 
him  feel  vivid  an*  gala  a  whole  lot. 

"  Which  we're  all  gettin'  on  as  pleasant  an* 
oneventful  as  a  litter  of  pups  over  on  the  Caliente, 
when  one  mornin'  across  the  divide  from  Red 
River  comes  this  yere  pugnacious  person,  Hotspur. 
He  makes  his  advent  r'arin'  an'  slidin'  down  the 
hillside  into  our  valley,  promulgatin*  insults,  an' 
stampin'  for  war.  You  can  see  it  in  Hotspur's  eye  ; 
he's  out  to  own  the  Caliente. 

"  Prince  Hal  is  curryin*  a  pony  when  this  yere 
invader  comes  crashin'  down  the  sides  of  the 
divide.  His  eyes  burn  red,  he  evolves  his  warcry 
in  a  deep  bass  voice,  an'  goes  curvin'  out  onto  the 
level  of  the  valley-bottom  to  meet  the  enemy. 
Gin'ral  Jackson  couldn't  have  displayed  more 
promptitood. 


How  Prince  Hal  Got  Help.  157 

"Thar  ain't  much  action  in  one  of  them  cattle 
battles.  First,  Hotspur  an*  Prince  Hal  stalks 
'round,  pawin'  up  a  sod  now  an*  then,  an'  sw'arin* 
a  gale  of  oaths  to  themse'fs.  It  looks  like  Prince 
Hal  could  say  the  most  bitter  things,  for  at  last 
Hotspur  leaves  off  his  pawin'  an'  profanity  an'  b'ars 
down  on  him.  The  two  puts  their  fore'ards 
together  an'  goes  in  for  a  pushin'  match. 

"But  this  don't  last.  Hotspur  is  two  years 
older,  an'  over-weighs  Prince  Hal  about  three 
hundred  pounds.  Prince  Hal  feels  Hotspur  out, 
an'  sees  that  by  the  time  the  deal  goes  to  the  turn, 
he'll  be  shore  loser.  A  plan  comes  into  his  mind. 
Prince  Hal  suddenly  backs  away,  an*  keeps  on 
backin'  ontil  he's  cl'ared  himse'f  from  his  foe  by 
eighty  feet.  Hotspur  stands  watchin' ;  it's  a  new 
wrinkle  in  bull  fights  to  him.  He  can  tell  that 
this  yere  Prince  Hal  ain't  conquered  none,  both  by 
the  voylent  remarks  he  makes  as  well  as  the  plumb 
defiant  way  he  wears  his  tail.  So  Hotspur  stands 
an'  ponders  the  play,  guessin'  at  what's  likely  to 
break  loose  next. 

"  But  the  conduct  of  this  yere  Prince  Hal  gets 
more  an*  more  mysterious.  When  he's  a  safe  eighty 
feet  away,  he  jumps  in  the  air,  cracks  his  heels 
together,  hurls  a  frightful  curse  at  Hotspur,  an' 
turns  an'  walks  off  a  heap  rapid.  Hotspur  can't  read 
them  signs  at  all ;  an'  to  be  frank,  no  more  can  I. 
Prince  Hal  never  looks  back;  he  surges  straight 
ahead,  climbs  the  hill  on  the  other  side,  an'  is  lost  in 
the  oak  bushes. 


158  Woifvilie  Days, 

"  Hotspur  watches  him  out  of  sight,  gets  a 
drink  in  the  Caliente,  an'  then  climbs  the  hillside 
to  where  I'm  camped,  to  decide  about  me.  Of 
course,  Hotspur  an'  I  arrives  at  a  treaty  of  peace 
by  the  bacon-rind  route,  an'  things  ag'in  quiets 
down  on  the  Caliente. 

"  It's  next  mornin'  about  fourth  drink  time,  an' 
I'm  overhaulin'  a  saddle  an'  makin'  up  some  beliefs 
on  several  subjects  of  interest,  when  I  observes 
Hotspur's  face  wearin'  a  onusual  an'  highly  hang 
dog  expression.  An'  I  can't  see  no  cause.  I 
sweeps  the  scenery  with  my  eye,  but  I  notes 
nothin*.  An'  yet  it's  as  evident  as  a  club  flush  that 
Hotspur's  scared  to  a  standstill.  He  ain't  sayin' 
nothin',  but  that's  because  he  thinks  he'll  save 
his  breath  to  groan  with  when  dyin*.  It's  a  fact, 
son  ;  I  couldn't  see  nor  hear  a  thing,  an'  yet  that 
Hotspur  bull  stands  thar  fully  aware,  somehow, 
that  thar's  a  warrant  out  for  him. 

"  At  last  I'm  made  posted  of  impendin'  events. 
Across  the  wide  Caliente  comes  a  faint  but  f'rocious 
war  song.  I  glance  over  that  a-way,  an'  thar  through 
the  oak  bresh  comes  Prince  Hal.  An'  although  he's 
a  mile  off,  he's  p'intin'  straight  for  this  yere  invader, 
Hotspur.  At  first  I  thinks  Prince  Hal's  alone,  an' 
I'm  marvellin'  whatever  he  reckons  he's  goin'  to 
a'complish  by  this  return.  But  jest  then  I  gets  a 
glimmer,  far  to  Prince  Hal's  r'ar,  of  that  reedic'lous 
Pistol,  the  milk-white  steer. 

"  I  beholds  it  all ;  Falstaff  is  comin';  only  bein*  a 
dark  brown  I  can't  yet  pick  him  out  o'  the  bresh. 


How  Prince  Hal  Got  Help.  159 

Prince  Hal  has  travelled  over  to  Long's  Canyon  an' 
told  the  giant  Falstaff  how  Hotspur  jumps  into  the 
Caliente  an'  puts  it  all  over  him  that  a-way.  Falstaff 
is  lumberin'  over — it's  a  journey  of  miles — to  put 
this  redundant  Hotspur  back  on  his  reservation. 
Prince  Hal,  bein'  warm,  lively  an'  plumb  zealous  to 
recover  his  valley,  is  nacherally  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
ahead  of  Falstaff. 

"  It's  allers  a  question  with  me  why  this  yere 
foolhardy  Hotspur  don't  stampede  out  for  safety. 
But  he  don't ;  he  stands  thar  lookin'  onusual  limp,  an' 
awaits  his  fate.  Prince  Hal  don't  rush  up  an' 
mingle  with  Hotspur;  he's  playin'  a  system  an'  he 
don't  deviate  tharfrom.  He  stands  of!  about  fifty 
yards,  callin'  Hotspur  names,  an'  waitin'  for  Falstaff 
to  arrive. 

"  An'  thar's  a  by-play  gets  pulled  off.  This  ranika- 
boo  Pistol,  who  couldn't  fight  a  little  bit,  an'  who's 
caperin'  along  ten  rods  in  the  lead  of  Falstaff,  gets 
the  sudden  crazy-hoss  notion  that  he'll  mete  out 
punishment  to  Hotspur  himse'f,  an'  make  a  reputa 
tion  as  a  war-eagle  with  his  pard  an'  patron,  Falstaff. 
With  that,  Pistol  curves  his  tail  like  a  letter  S,  and, 
lowerin*  his  knittin'-needle  horns,  comes  dancin'  up  to 
Hotspur.  The  bluff  of  this  yere  ignoble  Pistol  is  too 
much.  Hotspur  r'ars  loose  an'  charges  him.  This 
egretgious  Pistol  gets  crumpled  up,  an'  Hotspur 
goes  over  him  like  a  baggage  wagon.  The  shock  is 
sech  that  Pistol  falls  over  a  wash-bank  ;  an'  after 
swappin*  end  for  end,  lands  twenty  feet  below  with 
a  groan  an'  a  splash  in  the  Caliente.  Pistol  is  shorely 


160  Wolfville  Days. 

used  up,  an*  crawls  out  on  the  flat  ground  below,  as 
disconsolate  a  head  o'  cattle  as  ever  tempts  the 
echoes  with  his  wails. 

"  But  Hotspur  has  no  space  wherein  to  sing  his 
vict'ry.  Falstaff  decends  upon  him  like  a  fallin*  tree. 
With  one  rushin*  charge,  an*  a  note  like  thunder,  he 
simply  distributes  that  Hotspur  all  over  the  range. 
Thar's  only  one  blow  ;  as  soon  as  Hotspur  can  round 
up  his  fragments  an'  get  to  his  hoofs,  he  goes  sailin' 
down  the  valley,  his  eyes  stickin'  out  so's  he  can  see 
his  sins.  As  he  starts,  Prince  Hal,  who's  been  hoppin' 
about  the  rim  of  the  riot,  claps  his  horns  to  Hotspur's 
flyin'  hocks  an'  keeps  him  goin'.  But  it  ain't  needed 
none  ;  that  Falstaff  actooally  ruins  Hotspur  with  the 
first  charge. 

"  That  night  Falstaff,  with  the  pore  Pistol  jest 
able  to  totter,  stays  with  us,  an'  Prince  Hal  fusses  an* 
bosses'  'round,  sort  o*  directin'  their  entertainment. 
The  next  afternoon  Falstaff  gives  a  deep  bellow  or 
two,  like  he's  extendin'  ladios  to  the  entire  Caliente 
canyon,  an'  then  goes  pirootin'  off  for  home  in  Long's, 
with  Pistol,  who  looks  an'  feels  like  a  laughin*  stock, 
limpin*  at  his  heels.  That's  the  end.  Four  days 
later,  as  I'm  swingin'  '  round  the  range,  I  finds 
Falstaff  an'  Pistol  in  Long's  Canyon  ;  Prince  Hal  is 
on  the  Caliente  ;  while  Hotspur — an'  his  air  is  both 
wise  an'  sad — is  tamely  where  he  belongs  on  the 
Upper  Red.  An'  now  recallin'  how  I  comes  to 
plunge  into  this  yere  idyl,  I  desires  to  ask  you-all, 
however  Prince  Hal  brings  Falstaff  to  the  wars  that 
time,  if  cattle  can't  talk  ?  " 


CHAPTER  XIL 
How  Wolfville  Made  a  Jest. 

"  IT'S  soon  after  that  time  I  tells  you  of  when 
Rainbow  Sam  dies  off,"  and  the  Old  Cattleman  as 
sumed  the  airs  of  a  conversational  Froude,  "  when 
the  camp  turns  in  an'  has  its  little  jest  with  the  Sig 
nal  Service  sharp.  You  sees  we're  that  depressed 
about  Rainbow  cashin'  in,  we  needs  reelaxation  that 
a-way,  so  we-all  nacheral  enough  diverts  ourse'fs 
with  this  Signal  party  who  comes  bulgin'  up  all 
handy. 

"  Don't  make  no  mistaken  notions  about  Wolf- 
ville  bein'  a  idle  an'  a  dangerous  camp.  Which  on 
the  contrary,  Wolfville  is  shorely  the  home  of 
jestice,  an*  a  squar'  man  gets  a  squar'  game  every 
time.  Thar  ain't  no  *  bad  men'  'round  Wolfville, 
public  sentiment  bein'  obdurate  on  that  p'int. 
Hard  people,  who  has  filed  the  sights  often  their 
six-shooters  or  fans  their  guns  in  a  fight,  don't  get 
tolerated,  none  whatever. 

"  Of  course,  thar's  gents  in  Wolfville  who  has 
seen  trouble  an'  seen  it  in  the  smoke.  Cherokee 
Hall,  for  instance,  so  Doc  Peets  mentions  tome  pri 
vate,  one  time  an'  another  downs  'leven  men. 

"  But  Cherokee's  by  nacher  kind  o'  warm  an'  ner- 


162  Wolfville  Days* 

vous,  an*  bein'  he's  behind  a  faro  game,  most  likely 
he  sees  more  o'casion  ;  at  any  rate,  it's  common 
knowledge  that  whatever  he's  done  is  right. 

"  He  don't  beef  them  'leven  in  Wolfville  ;  all  I 
recalls  with  us,  is  the  man  from  Red  Dog,  the 
Stingin'  Lizard,  an'  mebby  a  strayed  Mexican  or  so. 
But  each  time  Cherokee's  hand  is  forced  by  these 
yere  parties,  an'  he's  exculpated  in  every  gent's 
mind  who  is  made  awar'  tharof. 

*'  No ;  Cherokee  don't  rely  allers  on  his  gun 
neither.  He's  a  hurryin'  knife  fighter  for  a  gent  with 
whom  knives  ain't  nacher.  Either  way,  however, 
gun  or  knife,  Cherokee  is  a  heap  reliable  ;  an'  you 
can  put  down  a  bet  that  what  he  misses  in  the 
quadrille  he'll  shore  make  up  in  the  waltz  with  all 
who  asks  him  to  a  war  dance.  But  speakin*  of 
knives:  Cherokee  comes  as  quick  an'  straight  with  a 
bowie  as  a  rattlesnake  ;  an'  not  half  the  buzz  about 
it. 

"  But  jest  the  same,  while  thar's  gents  in  camp 
like  Cherokee,  who  has  been  ag'inst  it  more'n  onct, 
an'  who  wins  an'  gets  away,  still  Wolfville's  as  quiet 
an'  sincere  an  outfit  as  any  Christian  could  ask. 

"  It's  a  fact ;  when  Shotgun  Dowling  capers  in  an* 
allows  he's  about  to  abide  with  us  a  whole  lot,  he's 
notified  to  hunt  another  hole  the  first  day. 

" '  So  far  from  you-all  livin'  with  us,  Shotgun,' 
says  Jack  Moore,  who's  depooted  to  give  Shotgun 
Dowling  the  run  ;  *  so  far  from  you  bunkin*  in  yere 
for  good,  we  ain't  even  aimin'  to  permit  your  visits. 
My  notion  is  that  you  better  pull  your  freight  some 


How  Wolfville  Made  a  Jest*  163 

instant.  Thar's  a  half-formed  thought  in  the  public 
bosom  that  if  anybody  sees  your  trail  to-morry,  all 
hands'll  turn  in  an'  arrange  you  for  the  grave.' 

" '  Never  mind  about  arrangin'  nothin','  says 
Shotgun  ;  *  I  quits  you  after  the  next  drink  ;  which 
libation  I  takes  alone.'  An'  Shotgun  rides  away. 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  Shotgun  ?  Well,  he's 
one  of  these  yere  murderin'  folks,  goin'  about 
downin'  Mexicans  merely  to  see  'em  kick,  an'  that 
sort  of  thing,  an'  all  of  which  no  se'f-respectin'  out 
fit  stands.  He  wins  out  his  name  *  Shotgun  '  them 
times  when  he's  dep'ty  marshal  over  at  Prescott. 

"'You  must  be  partic'lar  an'  serve  your  warrant 
on  a  gent  before  you  downs  him/  says  the  Jedge,  as 
he  gives  Shotgun  some  papers.  *  First  serve  your 
warrant,  an'  then  it's  legal  to  kill  him  ;  but  not 
without ! ' 

"  So  Shotgun  Dowling  takes  this  yere  warrant  an' 
crams  it  down  the  muzzle  of  a  shotgun  an'  hammers 
her  out  flat  on  top  them  buckshot. 

"  '  Thar  you  be  !  '  says  Dowling.  '  I  reckons  now 
the  warrant  gets  to  him  ahead  of  the  lead  ;  which 
makes  it  on  the  level.' 

"Tharupon  Shotgun  canters  out  an'  busts  his 
gent — warrant,  lead  an'  all — an'  that  gives  him  the 
name  of  *  Shotgun  '  Dowling. 

"  But  at  the  time  he  comes  riotin'  along  into 
Wolfville,  allowin'  he'll  reside  some,  he's  regyarded 
hard  ;  havin'  been  wolfin'  'round,  copperin'  Mexicans 
an'  friskin'  about  general ;  so,  nacheral,  we  warns 
him  out  as  aforesaid.  Which  I,  tharfore,  ag'in 


164  Wolfville  Days, 

remarks,  that  Wolfville  is  a  mighty  proper  an1 
peaceful  place,  an'  its  witticism  with  this  yere  Sig* 
nal  Service  party  needn't  be  inferred  ag'inst  it. 

"This  yere  gent  has  been  goin'  about  casooal,  an* 
his  air  is  a  heap  high-flown.  He's  been  pesterin'  an' 
irritatin*  about  the  post-office  for  mighty  like  an 
hour,  when  all  at  once  he  crosses  over  to  the  Red 
Light  an'  squar's  up  to  the  bar.  He  don't  invite 
none  of  us  to  licker — jest  himse'f ;  which  onp'lite- 
ness  is  shore  received  invidious. 

"  '  Gimme  a  cocktail/  says  this  Signal  person  to 
the  barkeep. 

"  As  they  ain't  mixin'  no  drinks  at  the  Red 
Light  for  man  or  beast,  nor  yet  at  Hamilton's 
hurdy-gurdy,  this  sport  in  yooniform  don't  get  no 
cocktail. 

"  '  Can't  mix  no  drinks/  says  Black  Jack. 

"  *  Can't  mix  no  cocktail  ?  '  says  the  Signal  sharp. 
'  Why  !  what  a  band  of  prairie  dogs  this  yere  ham 
let  is !  What's  the  matter  with  you-all  that  you 
can't  mix  no  cocktails  ?  Don't  you  savey  enough  ?  ' 

"  '  Do  we-all  savey  enough?'  says  Black  Jack, 
some  facetious  that  a-way.  l  Stranger,  we  simply 
suffers  with  what  we  saveys.  But  thar's  a  law  ag'in 
cocktails  an'  all  mixin'  of  drinks.  You  sees,  a 
Mexican  female  over  in  Tucson  is  one  day  mixin' 
drinks  for  a  gent  she's  a-harborin'  idees  ag'in,  an* 
she  rings  in  the  loco  onto  him,  an'  he  goes  plumb 
crazy.  Then  the  Legislatoore  arouses  itse'f  to  its 
peril,  that  a-way,  an'  ups  an'  makes  a  law  abatiu'  of 
mixed  drinks.  This  yere  bein'  gospel  trooth,  you'll 


How  Wolfville  Made  a  Jest,  165 

have  to  drink  straight  whiskey  ;  an'  you  might  as 
well  drink  it  outen  a  tin  cup,  too.' 

"As  he  says  this,  Black  Jack  sets  up  a  bottle  an* 
a  tin  cup,  an'  then  for  a  blazer  slams  a  six-shooter 
on  the  bar  at  the  same  time.  Lookin'  some  bloo 
tharat,  the  Signal  sharp  takes  a  gulp  or  two  of 
straight  nose-paint,  cavilin'  hot  at  the  tin  cup,  an* 
don't  mention  nothin'  more  of  cocktails. 

"  '  Whatever  is  the  damage  anyhow  ?  '  he  says  to 
Black  Jack,  soon  as  he's  quit  gaggin'  over  the 
whiskey,  the  same  tastin'  raw  an'  vicious  to  him, 
an'  him  with  his  lady-like  throat  framed  ready  for 
cocktails.  '  What's  thar  to  pay  ?  ' 

"'Nary  centouse?  says  Black  Jack,  moppin'  of 
the  bar  complacent.  *  Not  a  soo  markee.  That 
drink's  on  the  house,  stranger.' 

"  When  this  Signal  sharp  goes  out,  Enright  says 
he's  got  pore  manners,  an'  he  marvels  some  he's 
still  walkin'  the  earth. 

"  '  However,'  says  Enright,  '  I  s'pose  his  livin'  so 
long  arises  mainly  from  stayin'  East,  where  they 
don't  make  no  p'int  on  bein'  p'lite,  an'  runs  things 
looser.' 

"  '  Whatever's  the  matter  of  chasin'  this  insultin' 
tenderfoot  'round  a  lot,'  asks  Texas  Thompson, 
4  an'  havin'  amoosement  with  him?  Thar  ain't 
nothin'  doin',  an'  we  oughter  not  begretch  a  half-, 
day's  work,  puttin'  knowledge  into  this  party.  If 
somethin'  ain't  done  forthwith  to  inform  his  mind 
as  to  them  social  dooties  while  he  stays  in  Arizona, 
you  can  gamble  he  won't  last  to  go  East  no  more/ 


1 66  Wolfville  Days. 

"  As  what  Texas  Thompson  says  has  weight, 
thar  begins  to  grow  a  gen'ral  desire  to  enlighten 
this  yere  sport.  As  Texas  su'gests  the  idee,  it 
follows  that  he  goes  for'ard  to  begin  its  execootion. 

"  *  But  be  discreet,  Texas,'  says  Enright,  '  an' 
don't  force  no  showdown  with  this  Signal  gent. 
Attainin'  wisdom  is  one  thing,  an'  bein'  killed  that 
a-way,  is  plumb  different ;  an'  while  I  sees  no  ob 
jection  to  swellin'  the  general  fund  of  this  young 
person's  knowledge,  I  don't  purpose  that  you-all's 
goin'  to  confer  no  diplomas,  an'  graduate  him  into 
the  choir  above  none  with  a  gun,  at  one  an'  the 
same  time.' 

"  *  None  whatever,'  says  Texas  Thompson  ;  '  we 
merely  toys  with  this  tenderfoot  an'  never  so  much 
as  breaks  his  crust,  or  brings  a  drop  of  blood,  the 
slightest  morsel.  He's  takin'  life  too  lightly;  an' 
all  we  p'ints  out  to  do,  is  sober  him  an'  teach  him  a 
thoughtful  deecorum.' 

"Texas  Thompson  goes  a-weavin'  up  the  street 
so  as  to  cross  the  trail  of  this  Signal  party,  who's 
headed  down.  As  they  passes,  Texas  turns  as 
f'rocious  as  forty  timber  wolves,  an'  claps  his  hand 
on  the  shoulder  of  the  Signal  party. 

"'How's  this  yere?'  says  Texas,  shakin'  back 
his  long  ha'r.  An'  he  shorely  looks  hardened,  that 
a-way. 

"  '  How's  what  ? '  says  the  Signal  man,  who's  as. 
tonished  to  death. 

"  *  You  saveys  mighty  well,'  says  Texas.  '  You 
fails  to  bow  to  me,  aimin1  to  insult  an'  put  it  all  over 


How  Wolfville  Made  a  Jest.  167 

me  in  the  presence  of  this  yere  multitood.  Think 
of  it,  gents! '  goes  on  Texas,  beginnin'  to  froth,  an' 
a-raisin'  of  his  voice  to  a  whoop  ;  *  think  of  it,  an' 
me  the  war-chief  of  the  Panhandle,  with  forty-two 
skelps  on  my  bridle,  to  be  insulted  an'  disdained  by 
a  feeble  shorthorn  like  this.  It  shore  makes  me 
wonder  be  I  alive  ! 

"  '  Stranger,'  goes  on  Texas,  turnin'  to  the  Signal 
party,  an'  his  hand  drops  on  his  gun,  an'  he  breathes 
loud  like  a  buffalo;  '  nothin'  but  blood  is  goin'  to 
do  me  now.  If  I  was  troo  to  myse'f  at  this  mo 
ment,  I'd  take  a  knife  an'  shorely  split  you  like  a 
mackerel.  But  I  restrains  myse'f ;  also  I  don't 
notice  no  weepon  onto  you.  Go,  tharfore,  an' 
heel  yourse'f,  for  by  next  drink  time  the  avenger 
'11  be  huntin'  on  your  trail.  I  gives  you  half  an 
hour  to  live.  Not  on  your  account,  'cause  it  ain't 
comin'  to  you ;  but  merely  not  to  ketch  no  angels 
off  their  gyard,  an'  to  allow  'em  a  chance  to  organize 
for  your  reception.  Besides,  I  don't  aim  to  spring 
no  corpses  on  this  camp.  Pendin*  hostilities,  I 
shall  rest  myse'f  in  the  Red  Light,  permittin'  you 
the  advantages  of  the  dance  hall,  where  Hamilton 
'11  lend  you  pen,  ink,  paper,  an'  monte  table,  whar- 
by  to  concoct  your  last  will.  Stranger,  adios!  ' 

"  By  the  time  Texas  gets  off  this  talk  an'  starts 
for  the  Red  Light,  the  Signal  sport  is  lookin'  some 
sallow  an'  perturbed.  He's  shorely  alarmed. 

"  *  See  yere,  pard,'  says  Dan  Boggs,  breakin' 
loose  all  at  once,  like  he's  so  honest  he  can't  restrain 
himse'f,  an'  jest  as  Texas  heads  out  for  the  Red 


168  Wolfville  Days. 

Light ;  '  you're  a  heap  onknown  to  me,  but  I  takes 
a  chance  an'  stands  your  friend.  Now  yere's  what 
you  do.  You  stiffen  yourse'f  up  with  a  Colt's  '44, 
an'  lay  for  this  Texas  Thompson.  He's  a  rustler 
an'  a  hoss-thief,  an*  a  murderer  who,  as  he  says,  has 
planted  forty-two,  not  countin'  Injuns,  Mexicans 
an'  mavericks.  He  oughter  be  massacred  ;  an'  as 
it's  come  your  way,  why  prance  in  an*  spill  his 
blood.  This  camp'll  justify  an'  applaud  the  play.' 

"  '  But  I  can't  fight  none,'  says  the  Signal  party. 
'  It's  ag'in  the  rooles  an'  reg'lations  of  the  army.' 

" '  Which  I  don't  see  none  how  you're  goin*  to 
renig,'  says  Dave  Tutt.  '  This  debauchee  is  doo  to 
shoot  you  on  sight.  Them  army  rooles  shorely 
should  permit  a  gent  to  scout  off  to  one  side  the 
strict  trail  a  little ;  partic'lar  when  it's  come  down 
to  savin'  his  own  skelp.' 

"  One  way  an*  another,  Tutt  an'  Boggs  makes  it 
cl'ar  as  paint  to  the  Signal  party  that  thar's  only 
two  chances  left  in  the  box ;  either  he  downs  Texas 
or  Texas  gets  him.  The  Signal  party  says  it's  what 
he  calls  a  '  dread  alternatif.' 

"  *  Which  when  I  thinks  of  the  gore  this  yere 
murderous  Thompson  already  dabbles  in,'  says 
Boggs  to  the  Signal  party,  *  I  endorses  them  expres 
sions.  However,  you  put  yourse'f  in  the  hands  of 
me  an'  Dave,  an*  we  does  our  best.  If  you  lives 
through  it,  the  drinks  is  on  you  ;  an'  if  Texas  beefs 
you — which,  while  deplorable,  is  none  remote  con- 
siderin'  this  yere  Texas  is  a  reg'lar  engine  of  de 
struction — we  sees  that  your  remainder  goes  back  to 
the  States  successful/ 


How  Wolfville  Made  a  Jest*  169 

"  The  Signal  party  says  he's  thankful  he's  found 
friends,  an*  tharupon  they-all  lines  out  for  the  dance 
hall,  where  they  gets  drinks,  an'  the  Signal  man, 
who's  some  pallid  by  now,  riggers  he'll  write  them 
letters  an'  sort  o'  straighten  up  his  chips  for  the 
worst.  Boggs  observes  that  it's  a  good  move,  an' 
that  Tutt  an'  he'll  take  an  o'casional  drink  an' 
ride  herd  on  his  interests  while  he  does. 

"Tutt  an'  Boggs  have  got  their  brands  onto 
mebby  two  drinks,  when  over  comes  Doc  Peets, 
lookin'  deadly  dignified  an*  severe,  an'  says : 

"  *  Who-all  represents  yere  for  this  gent  who's 
out  for  the  blood  of  my  friend,  Texas  Thompson  ?  ' 

"'Talk  to  me  an'  Tutt,'  says  Boggs;  'an'  cut 
her  short,  'cause  it's  the  opinion  of  our  gent  this 
rancorous  Thompson  infests  the  earth  too  long,  an* 
he's  hungerin'  to  begin  his  butchery.' 

'"Which  thar's  enough  said,'  says  Peets;'! 
merely  appears  to  notify  you  that  in  five  minutes  I 
parades  my  gent  in  front  of  the  post-office,  an'  the 
atrocities  can  proceed.  They  fights  with  six- 
shooters  ;  now  what's  the  distance  ?  ' 

"  '  Make  it  across  a  blanket,'  says  Tutt. 

" '  An'  fold  the  blanket/  breaks  in  Boggs. 

" '  You  can't  make  it  too  clost  for  my  gent/  says 
Peets.  '  As  I  starts  to  this  yere  conference,  he  says  : 
"  Doc,  make  her  six-shooters  an'  over  a  handker 
chief.  I  thirsts  to  shove  the  iron  plumb  ag'inst  the 
heart  that  insults  me,  as  I  onhooks  my  weepon." ' 

"  Of  course,  the  poor  Signal  party,  tryin'  to 
write  over  by  a  monte  table,  an'  spillin'  ink  all  over 


170  Wolfville  Days. 

himse'f,  listens  to  them  remarks,  an'  it  makes  him 
feel  particular  pensif. 

*"  In  five  minutes,  then/  says  Peets,  'you-all 
organize  your  gent  an'  come  a-runnin'.  I  must 
canter  over  to  see  how  Texas  is  holdin*  himse'f. 
He's  that  fretful  a  minute  back,  he's  t'arin'  hunks 
outen  a  white-ash  table  with  his  teeth  like  it's 
ginger-cake,  an'  moanin'  for  blood.  Old  Monte's 
lookin'  after  him,  but  I  better  get  back.  Which  he 
might  in  his  frenzy,  that  a-way,  come  scatterin' 
loose  any  moment,  an'  go  r'arin'  about  an'  killin1 
your  gent  without  orders.  Sech  a  play  would  be 
onelegant  an'  no  delicacy  to  it ;  an*  I  now  returns 
to  gyard  ag'in  it.' 

"  As  soon  as  Peets  is  started  for  the  Red  Light, 
Tutt  ag'in  turns  to  the  Signal  party,  who's  settin' 
thar  lookin'  he'pless  an'  worried,  like  he's  a  prairie 
dog  who's  come  back  from  visitin'  some  other  dog, 
an'  finds  a  rattlesnake's  done  pitched  camp  in  the 
mouth  of  his  hole. 

"  *  Now  then,  stranger,'  says  Tutt,  '  if  you-all  has 
a'complished  that  clerical  work,  me  an'  Dan  will 
lead  you  to  your  meat.  When  you  gets  to 
shootin',  aim  low  an'  be  shore  an'  see  your  victim 
every  time  you  cuts  her  loose.' 

"  The  Signal  party  takes  it  plumb  gray  an* 
haggard,  but  not  seein*  no  other  way,  he  gets  up, 
an'  after  stampin'  about  a  trifle  nervous,  allows, 
since  it's  the  best  he  can  do,  he's  ready. 

"  *  Which  it  is  spoke  like  a  man/  says  Boggs. 
•  So  come  along,  an*  we'll  hunt  out  this  annihilator 


How  Wolfville  Made  a  Jest.  171 

from  Laredo  an'  make  him  think  he's  been  caught  in 
a  cloudburst.' 

"  Old  Monte  has  spread  a  doubled  blanket  in 
front  of  the  post-office ;  an'  as  Tutt  an'  Boggs 
starts  with  their  Signal  party,  thar's  a  yell  like 
forty  Apaches  pours  forth  from  across  the  street. 

" '  That's  Thompson's  war  yelp/  says  Boggs, 
explainin'  of  them  clamors  to  the  Signal  party. 
4  Which  it  would  seem  from  the  fervor  he  puts 
into  it,  he's  shorely  all  keyed  up/ 

"As  Doc  Peets  comes  out  a-leadin'  of  Texas,  it's 
noticed  that  Texas  has  got  a  tin  cup. 

" '  Whatever's  your  gent  a-packin'  of  that 
yootensil  for?'  demands  Tutt,  mighty  truculent. 

*  Is  this  yere  to  be  a  combat  with  dippers  ?  ' 

"  l  Oh,  no  ! '  says  Peets,  like  he's  tryin'  to  excuse 
somethin',  '  but  he  insists  on  fetchin*  it  so  hard, 
that  at  last  to  soothe  him  I  gives  my  consent.' 

" '  Well,   we   challenges    the  dipper/    says  Tutt. 

*  You-all  will  fight  on  the  squar',  or  we  removes  our 
gent.' 

" '  Don't,  don't ! '  shouts  Texas,  like  he's  agitated 
no  limit ;  '  don't  take  him  outen  my  sight  no  more. 
I  only  fetches  the  cup  to  drink  his  blood  ;  but  it's 
a  small  detail,  which  I  shore  relinquishes  before  ever 
I  allows  my  heaven-sent  prey  the  least  loophole  to 
escape/ 

"  When  Peets  goes  up  an'  takes  Texas's  cup,  the 
two  debates  together  in  a  whisper,  Texas  lettin'  on 
he's  mighty  hot  an'  furious.  At  last  Peets  says  to 
him : 


1 72  "Wolfville  Days* 

"  '  Which  I  tells  you  sech  a  proposal  is  irreg'lar; 
but  since  you  insists,  of  course  I  names  it.  My 
gent  yere,'  goes  on  Peets  to  Boggs  an'  Tutt,  'wants 
to  agree  that  the  survivor's  to  be  allowed  to  skelp 
his  departed  foe.  Does  the  bluff  go?  ' 

"  *  It's  what  our  gent's  been  urgin'  from  the 
jump/  says  Boggs  ;  '  an'  tharfore  we  consents  with 
glee.  Round  up  that  outlaw  of  yours  now,  an'  let's 
get  to  shootinY 

"  I  don't  reckon  I  ever  sees  anybody  who  seems 
as  fatigued  as  that  Signal  person  when  Boggs  an' 
Tutt  starts  to  lead  him  up  to  the  blanket.  His 
face  looks  like  a  cancelled  postage-stamp.  While 
they're  standin'  up  their  folks,  Texas  goes  ragin' 
loose  ag'in  because  it's  a  fight  over  a  blanket  an*  not 
a  handkerchief,  as  he  demands. 

"  *  What's  the  meanin'  of  a  cold  an'  formal  racket 
sech  as  this?'  he  howls,  turnin'  to  Peets.  '  I  wants 
to  go  clost  to  my  work  ;  I  wants  to  crowd  in  where 
it's  warm.' 

"'I  proposes  a  handkerchief,'  says  Peets;  'but 
Tutt  objects  on  the  grounds  that  his  man's  got 
heart  palp'tations  or  somethinY 

"  '  You're  a  liar,'  yells  Tutt ;  *  our  gent's  heart's 
as  solid  as  a  sod  house.' 

•"What  do  I  hear?'  shouts  Peets.  'You  calls 
me  a  liar  ? ' 

"At  this  Tutt  an'  Peets  lugs  out  their  guns  an' 
blazes  away  at  each  other  six  times  like  the  roll  of 
a  drum — Texas  all  the  time  yellin'  for  a  weepon,  an' 
cavortin'  about  in  the  smoke  that  demoniac  he'd 


How  Wolfville  Made  a  Jest.  17 3 

scare  me,  only  I  knows  it's  yoomerous.  Of  course 
Peets  an'  Tutt  misses  every  shot,  and  at  the  wind- 
up,  after  glarin'  at  each  other  through  the  clouds, 
Peets  says  to  Tutt : 

"  *  This  yere  is  mere  petulance.  Let's  proceed 
with  our  dooties.  As  soon  as  Texas  has  killed  an' 
skelped  the  hold-up  you  represents,  I'll  shoot  it  out 
with  you,  if  it  takes  the  autumn.' 

"  *  That's  good  enough  for  a  dog,'  says  Tutt, 
stickin'  his  gun  back  in  the  scabbard  ;  *  an'  now  we 
proceeds  with  the  orig'nal  baile.' 

"  But  they  don't  proceed  none.  As  Tutt  turns 
to  his  Signal  sharp,  who's  all  but  locoed  by  the 
shootin',  an'  has  to  be  detained  by  Boggs  from  run- 
nin'  away,  Jack  Moore  comes  chargin'  up  on  his 
pony  an'  throws  a  gun  on  the  whole  outfit. 

"  '  Hands  up  yere  !  '  he  says,  sharp  an'  brief ;  '  or 
I  provides  the  coyotes  with  meat  for  a  month  to 
come.' 

"  Everybody's  hands  goes  up  ;  an'  it's  plain 
Moore's  comin'  ain't  no  disapp'intment  to  the  Sig 
nal  person.  He's  that  relieved  he  shows  it. 

"  *  Don't  look  so  tickled,'  growls  Boggs  to  him,  as 
Moore  heads  the  round-up  for  the  New  York  Store  ; 
*  don't  look  so  light  about  it ;  you  mortifies  me.' 

"  Moore  takes  the  band  over  to  the  New  York 
Store,  where  Enright's  settin'  as  a  jedge.  He  allows 
he's  goin'  to  put  'em  all  on  trial  for  disturbin'  of 
Wolfville's  peace.  The  Signal  sharp  starts  to  say 
somethin',  when  Peets  interrupts,  an'  that  brings 
Boggs  to  the  front,  an'  after  that  a  gen'ral  uproar 
breaks  lapse  Ukc  a  stampede. 


174  Wolfville  Days* 

" '  Gimme  a  knife,  somebody,'  howls  Texas,  '  an* 
let  me  get  in  on  this  as  I  should.  Am  I  to  be 
robbed  of  my  revenge  like  this? ' 

"  But  Enright  jumps  for  a  old  Spencer  seven- 
shooter,  an'  announces  it  cold,  he's  out  to  down  the 
first  gent  that  talks  back  to  him  a  second  time. 
This  ca'ms  'em,  an'  the  riot  sort  o'  simmers. 

" '  Not  that  I  objects  to  a  street  fight,'  says 
Enright,  discussin'  of  the  case  ;  '  but  you-all  talks 
too  much.  From  the  jabber  as  was  goin'  for'ard 
over  that  blanket  out  thar,  it  shorely  reminds  me 
more  of  a  passel  of  old  ladies  at  a  quiltin'  bee, 
than  a  convocation  of  discreet  an*  se'f-respectin' 
gents  who's  pullin*  off  a  dooel.  To  cut  her  short, 
the  public  don't  tolerate  no  sech  rackets,  an'  yere- 
upon  I  puts  Texas  Thompson  an'  this  Signal  party 
onder  fifty-thousand-dollar  bonds  to  keep  the  peace.' 

"  Texas  is  set  loose,  with  Peets  an'  Cherokee  Hall 
on  his  papers  ;  but  the  Signal  sharp,  bein'  strange 
in  camp,  can't  put  up  no  bonds. 

"  '  Which  as  thar's  no  calaboose  to  put  you  into,' 
says  Enright,  when  he's  told  by  the  Signal  party 
that  he  can't  make  no  bonds;  'an'  as  it's  plumb 
ag'in  the  constitootion  of  Arizona  to  let  you  go,  I 
shore  sees  no  trail  out  but  hangin'.  I  regrets  them 
stern  necessities  which  feeds  a  pore  young  man  to 
the  halter,  but  you  sees  yourse'f  the  Union  must 
an'  shall  be  preserved.  Jack,  go  over  to  my  pony 
an'  fetch  the  rope.  It's  a  new  half-inch  manilla, 
but  I  cheerfully  parts  with  it  in  the  cause  of  jestice.' 

"  When  Moore  gets  back  with  the  rope,  an'  every- 


How  Wolfville  Made  a  Jest.  175 

body's  lookin'  serious,  that  a-way,  it  shakes  the 
Signal  party  to  sech  a  degree  that  he  camps  down 
on  a  shoe-box  an'  allows  he  needs  a  drink.  Boggs 
says  he'll  go  after  it,  when  Tutt  breaks  in  an* 
announces  that  he's  got  a  bluff  to  hand  up. 

"  *  If  I'm  dead  certain/  says  Tutt,  surveyin'  of 
the  Signal  party  a  heap  doubtful ;  '  if  I  was  shore 
now  that  this  gent  wouldn't  leave  the  reservation 
none,  I'd  go  that  bond  myse'f.  But  I'm  in  no  sech 
fix  financial  as  makes  it  right  for  me  to  get  put  in 
the  hole  for  fifty  thousand  dollars  by  no  stranger, 
however  intimate  we  be.  But  yere's  what  I'm 
willin'  to  do  :  If  this  sharp  wears  hobbles  so  he 
can't  up  an'  canter  off,  why,  rather  than  see  a  young 
gent's  neck  a  foot  longer,  I  goes  this  bail  myse'f.', 

"  The  Signal  party  is  eager  for  hobbles,  an'  he 
gives  Tutt  his  word  to  sign  up  the  documents  an'  he 
wont  run  a  little  bit. 

"  '  Which  the  same  bein'  now  settled,  congenial 
an'  legal,'  says  Enright,  when  Tutt  signs  up  ;  '  Jack 
Moore  he'ps  the  gent  on  with  them  hobbles,  an'  the 
court  stands  adjourned  till  further  orders.' 

"  After  he's  all  hobbled  an'  safe,  Tutt  an'  the 
Signal  party  starts  over  for  the  post-office,  both 
progressin'  some  slow  an'  reluctant  because  of  the 
Signal  party's  hobbles  holdin'  him  down  to  a  shuf 
fle.  As  they  toils  along,  Tutt  says : 

"  *  An'  now  that  this  yere  affair  ends  so  successful, 
I'd  shore  admire  to  know  whatever  you  an'  that 
cut-throat  takes  to  chewin'  of  each  other's  manes 
for,  anyway  ?  Why  did  you  refoose  to  bow  ? ' 


176  Wolfville  Days, 

"  '  Which  I  never  refooses  once,'  says  the  Signal 
party  ;  *  I  salootes  this  Texas  gent  with  pleasure,  if 
that's  what  he  needs.' 

"  '  In  that  case,'  says  Tutt,  *  you  make  yourse'f 
comfortable  leanin'  ag'in  this  buildin',  an'  I'll  pro 
ject  over  an'  see  if  this  embroglio  can't  be  reecon- 
ciled  a  lot.  Mootual  apol'gies  an'  whiskey,  looks 
like,  ought  to  reepair  them  dissensions  easy.' 

"  So  the  Signal  party  leans  up  ag'in  the  front  of 
the  post-office  an'  surveys  his  hobbles  mighty  mel 
ancholy,  while  Tutt  goes  over  to  the  Red  Light  to 
look  up  Texas  Thompson.  It  ain't  no  time  when 
he's  headed  back  with  Texas  an'  the  balance  of  the 
band. 

"  '  Give  us  your  hand,  pard,'  says  Texas,  a  heap 
effoosive,  as  he  comes  up  to  the  Signal  party;  *I 
learns  from  our  common  friend,  Dave  Tutt,  that  this 
yere's  a  mistake,  an*  I  tharfore  forgives  you  freely 
all  the  trouble  you  causes.  It's  over  now  an'  plumb 
forgot.  You're  a  dead  game  sport,  an'  I  shakes 
your  hand  with  pride.' 

"  '  Same  yere,'  says  Doc  Peets,  also  shakin'  of  the 
Signal  party's  hand,  which  is  sort  o'  limp  an'  cheer 
less. 

"  However,  we  rips  off  his  hobbles,  an'  then  the 
outfit  steers  over  to  the  Red  Light  to  be  regaled 
after  all  our  hard  work. 

"'Yere's  hopin'  luck  an'  long  acquaintance, 
stranger,'  says  Texas,  holdin'  up  his  glass  to  the 
Signal  party,  who  is  likewise  p'lite,  but  feeble. 

" '  Which    the   joyous    outcome    of    this    tangle 


How  Wolfville  Made  a  Jest*  177 

shows,'  says  Dan  Boggs,  as  he  hammers  his  glass  on 
the  bar  an'  shouts  for  another  all  'round,'  that  you-all 
can't  have  too  much  talk  swappin',  when  the  objects 
of  the  meetin'  is  to  avert  blood.  How  much  better 
we  feels,  standin'  yere  drinkin'  our  nose-paint  all 
cool  an'  comfortable,  an'  congrat'latin'  the  two 
brave  sports  who's  with  us,  than  if  we  has  a  corpse 
sawed  onto  us  onexpected,  an'  is  driven  to  go  grave- 
diggin'  in  sech  sun-blistered,  sizzlin'  weather  as 
this.' 

"  '  That's  whatever,'  says  Dave  Tutt ;  '  an'  I  fills 
my  cup  in  approval,  you  can  gamble,  of  them 
observations.' " 


CHAPTER  XIIL 
Death;  and  the  Donna  Anna* 

"LOCOWEED?  Do  I  savey  loco?"  The  Old 
Cattleman's  face  offered  full  hint  of  his  amazement 
as  he  repeated  in  the  idiom  of  his  day  and  kind 
the  substance  of  my  interrogatory.  "  Why,  son,'* 
he  continued,  "  every  longhorn  who's  ever  cinched 
a  Colorado  saddle,  or  roped  a  steer,  is  plumb 
aware  of  locoweed.  Loco  is  Mexicano  for  mad — 
crazy.  An'  cattle  or  mules  or  ponies  or  anythin' 
else,  that  makes  a  repast  of  locoweed — which  as  a 
roole  they  don't,  bein'  posted  instinctif  that 
loco  that  a-way  is  no  bueno — goes  crazy-  what 
we-all  in  the  Southwest  calls  '  locoed.' 

"  Whatever  does  this  yere  plant  resemble  ? 
I  ain't  no  sharp  on  loco,  but  the  brand  I  encounters 
is  green,  bunchy,  stiff,  an'  stands  taller  than  the 
grass  about  it.  An'  it  ain't  allers  thar  when  looked 
for,  loco  ain't.  It's  one  of  these  yere  migratory 
weeds ;  you'll  see  it  growin'  about  the  range  mebby 
one  or  two  seasons,  an*  then  it  sort  o'  pulls  its 
freight.  Thar  wont  come  no  more  loco  for  years. 

"Mostly,  as  I  observes  prior,  anamiles  disdains  loco, 
an'  passes  it  up  as  bad  medicine.  They're  organ 
ized  with  a  notion  ag'inst  it,  same  as  ag'inst  rattle- 


Death;  and  the  Donna  Anna*  179 

snakes  An'as  for  them  latter  reptiles,  you  can  take  a 
preacher's  hoss,  foaled  in  the  lap  of  civilization,  who 
ain't  seen  nothin'  more  broadenin'  than  the  reg'lar 
church  service,  with  now  an'  then  a  revival,  an'  yet 
he's  born  knowin'  so  much  about  rattlesnakes  in 
all  their  hein'ousness,  that  he'll  hunch  his  back  an' 
go  soarin'  'way  up  yonder  at  the  first  Zizz-z-z-z. 

"  Doc  Peets  informs  me  once  when  we  crosses 
up  with  some  locoweed  over  by  the  Cow  Springs, 
that  thar's  two  or  three  breeds  of  this  malignant 
vegetable.  He  writes  down  for  me  the  scientific 
name  of  the  sort  we  gets  ag'inst.  Thar  she  is." 

And  my  friend  produced  from  some  recess  of  a 
gigantic  pocketbook  a  card  whereon  the  learned 
Peets  had  written  Oxytropis  Lamberti. 

"  That's  what  Peets  says  loco  is,"  he  resumed, 
as  I  handed  back  the  card.  "  Of  course,  I  don't  go 
surgin*  off  pronouncin*  no  sech  words ;  shorely 
not  in  mixed  company.  Some  gent  might  take  it 
personal  an'  resent  it.  But  I  likes  to  pack  'em 
about,  an'  search  'em  out  now  an'  then,  jest  to 
gaze  on  an'  think  what  a  dead  cold  scientist  Doc 
Peets  is.  He's  shorely  the  high  kyard  ;  thar  never 
is  that  drug-sharp  in  the  cow  country  in  my  day 
who's  fit  to  pay  for  Peets'  whiskey.  Scientific  an' 
eddicated  to  a  feather  aige,  Peets  is. 

"  You-all  oughter  heard  him  lay  for  one  of 
them  cliff-climbin',  bone-huntin' stone  c'llectors  who 
comes  out  from  Washin'ton  for  the  Gov'ment.  One 
of  these  yere  deep  people  strikes  Wolfville  on  one 
of  them  rock-roundups  he's  makin',  an'  for  a-while 


i8o  Wolfville  Days. 

it  looks  like  he's  goin'  to  split  things  wide  open, 
He's  that  contrary  about  his  learnin',  he  wont  use 
nothin*  but  words  of  four  syllables — words  that 
runs  about  eight  to  the  pound.  He  comes  into  the 
New  York  Store  where  Boggs  an'  Tutt  an'  me 
is  assembled,  an',  you  hear  me,  son !  that  savant  has 
us  walkin'  in  a  cirkle  in  a  minute. 

"  It's  Peets  who  relieves  us.  Peets  strolls  up  an' 
engages  this  person  in  a  debate  touchin'  mule-hoof 
hawgs ;  the  gov'ment  sport  maintainin*  thar  ain't 
no  sech  swine  with  hoofs  like  a  mule,  because 
he's  never  heard  about  'em ;  an'  Peets  takin'  the 
opp'site  view  because  he's  done  met  an'  eat  'em 
a  whole  lot. 

" '  The  mere  fact/  says  Peets  to  this  scientist, 
'  that  you  mavericks  never  knows  of  this  mule-hoof 
hawg,  cannot  be  taken  as  proof  he  does  not  still 
root  an'  roam  the  land.  Thar's  more  than  one 
of  you  Washin'ton  shorthorns  who's  chiefly  famed 
for  what  he's  failed  to  know.  The  mule-hoof 
hawg  is  a  fact ;  an'  the  ignorance  of  closet 
naturalists  shall  not  prevail  ag'inst  him.  His 
back  is  arched  like  a  greyhound's,  he's  about  the 
thickness  of  a  bowie-knife,  he's  got  hoofs  like  a 
mule,  an*  sees  his  highest  deevelopment  in  the 
wilds  of  Arkansaw.' 

"  But  speakin'  of  locoweed,  it's  only  o'casional 
that  cattle  or  mules  or  broncos  partakes  tharof. 
Which  I  might  repeat  for  the  third  time  that,  gen- 
'ral,  they  eschews  it.  But  you-all  never  will  know 
how  wise  a  anamile  is  till  he  takes  to  munchin'  loco. 


Death;  and  the  Donna  Anna.  181 

Once  he's  plumb  locoed,  he  jest  don't  know  nothin' ; 
then  it  dawns  on  you,  by  comparison  like,  how  much 
he  saveys  prior.  The  change  shows  plainest  in 
mules  ;  they  bein' — that  is,  the  mule  normal  an'  be 
fore  he's  locoed — the  wisest  of  beasts.  Wise,  did  I 
say?  A  mule  is  more  than  wise,  he's  sagacious. 
An'  thar's  a  mighty  sight  of  difference.  To  be 
simply  wise,  all  one  has  to  do  is  set  'round  an* 
think  wise  things,  an*  mebby  say  'em.  It's  only 
when  a  gent  goes  trackin'  'round  an'  does  wise 
things,  you  calls  him  sagacious.  An*  mules  does 
wisdom. 

"  Shore  !  I  admits  it ;  I'm  friendly  to  mules.  If 
the  Southwest  ever  onbends  in  a  intellectual  com 
petition — whites  barred — mules  will  stand  at  the 
head.  The  list  should  come  out,  mules,  coyotes, 
Injuns,  Mexicans,  ponies,  jack  rabbits,  sheep-herd 
ers,  an'  pra'ry  dogs,  the  last  two  bein'  shorely  im 
becile. 

"  Yes,  son  ;  you  can  lean  up  ag'inst  the  intelli 
gence  of  a  mule  an'  go  to  sleep.  Not  but  what 
mules  hasn't  their  illoosions,  sech  as  white  mares  an' 
sim'lar  reedic'lous  inflooences;  but  them's  weak 
nesses  of  the  sperit  rather  than  of  mind. 

"While  mules  don't  nacherally  go  scoutin'  for 
loco,  an'  commonly  avoids  said  weed  when  found,  if 
they  ever  does  taste  it  once,  they  never  quits  it  as 
long  as  they  lives.  It's  like  whiskey  to  Huggins  an* 
Old  Monte ;  the  appetite  sort  o'  goes  into  camp 
with  'em  an'  takes  possession.  No  ;  a  locoed  mule 
ain't  vicious  nor  voylent ;  it's  more  like  the  tree- 


1 82  Wolfville  Days. 

mors — he  sees  spectacles  that  ain't  thar  none.  I've 
beheld  a  locoed  mule  that  a-way,  standin'  alone  on 
the  level  plains  in  the  sun,  kickin'  an'  pitchin1  to 
beat  a  straight  flush.  He  thinks  he's  surrounded 
by  Injuns  or  other  hostiles;  he's  that  crazy  he  don't 
know  grass  from  t'rar:  'lers.  An'  their  mem'ry's 
wiped  out ;  they  forgets  to  eat  an'  starves  to  death. 
That's  the  way  they  dies,  onless  some  party  who 
gets  worked  up  seein'  'em  about,  takes  a  Winchester 
an'  pumps  a  bullet  into  'em. 

"  Yes ;  Peets  says  if  a  gent  was  to  take  to  loadin' 
up  on  loco,  or  deecoctions  tharof,  he'd  become 
afflicted  by  bats,  same  as  cattle  an'  mules.  But  no 
one  I  knc  >vs  of,  so  far  as  any  news  of  it  ever  comes 
grazin'  my  way,  is  that  ongyarded.  I  never  hears 
tell  in  detail  of  sech  a  case  but  onct ;  an'  that's  a 
tale  that  Old  Man  Enright  sets  forth  one  evenin'  in 
the  Red  Light. 

"  We-all  is  settin'  'round  the  faro  layout  at  the 
time.  Cherokee  Hall  is  back  of  the  box,  with  Faro 
Nell  on  the  look-out's  stool ;  but  nobody's  feelin' 
playful,  an'  no  money's  bein'  changed  in.  It's  only 
about  first  drink  time  in  the  evenin',  which,  as  a 
season,  is  prematoor  for  faro-bank.  It's  Dave  Tutt 
who  brings  up  the  matter  with  some  remarks  he 
makes  touchin'  the  .razy-hoss  conduct  of  a  party 
who  works  over  '.o  the  stage  company's  corral. 
This  hoss-hustler  is  that  eccentric  he's  ediotic,  aji'  is 
known  as  '  Lc-oed  Charlie.'  It's  him  who  final 
falls  a  prey  to  ants  that  time. 

"  *  An'    it's   my  belief,'  asserts    Tutt,  as   he  con- 


Death;  and  the  Donna  Anna*  183 

cloodes  his  relations  of  the  ranikaboo  breaks  of  this 
party,  '  that  if  this  Charlie,  speakin'  mine  fashion, 
was  to  take  his  intellects  over  to  the  assay  office  in 
Tucson,  they  wouldn't  show  half  a  ounce  of  idee 
to  the  ton  ;  wouldn't  even  show  a  color.  Which 
he's  shore  locoed.' 

" '  Speakin'  of  being  locoed  that  a-way/  says  En- 
right,  *  recalls  an  incident  that  takes  place  back 
when  I'm  a  yearlin'  an'  assoomes  my  feeble  part  in 
the  Mexican  War.  That's  years  ago,  but  I  don't 
know  of  nothin'  sadder  than  that  story,  nothin' 
more  replete  of  sobs.  Not  that  I  weeps  tharat,  for 
I'm  a  thoughtless  an'  a  callous  yooth,  but,  all  the 
same,  it  glooms  me  up  a  heap.' 

"  *  Is  it  a  love  story,  Daddy  En  right  ?  '  asks  Faro 
Nell,  all  eager,  an'  bendin'  towards  Enright  across 
the  layout. 

"  '  It  shows  brands  an'  y'ear  marks  as  sech,  Nel 
lie,'  says  Enright ;  '  love  an'  loco  makes  up  the 
heft  of  it.' 

" '  Then  tell  it,'  urges  Faro  Nell.  '  I'm  actooally 
hungerin'  for  a  love  story,'  an'  she  reaches  down, 
an*  squeezes  Cherokee's  hand  onder  the  table. 

"  Cherokee  squeezes  hers,  an'  turns  his  deal  box 
on  its  side  to  show  thar's  no  game  goin',  an'  leans 
back  with  the  rest  of  us  to  listen.  Black  Jack,  who 
knows  his  mission  on  this  earth,  brings  over  a  bot 
tle  with  glasses  all  'round. 

"  *  Yere's  to  you,  Nellie,'  says  Texas  Thompson, 
as  we  shoves  the  nose-paint  about.  '  While  that 
divorce  edict  my  wife  wirs  back  in  Laredo  modifies 


184  Wolfvillc  Days* 

my  interest  in  love  tales,  an'  whereas  I  don't  feel 
them  thrills  as  was  the  habit  of  me  onct,  still,  in  a 
subdooed  way  I  can  drink  happiness  to  you.' 

"  '  Texas,'  says  Boggs,  settin'  down  his  glass  an' 
bendin'  a  eye  full  of  indignant  reproach  on 
Thompson  ;  '  Texas,  before  I'd  give  way  to  sech  on- 
manly  weakness,  jest  because  my  wife's  done  stam 
peded,  I'd  j'ine  the  church.  Sech  mush  from  a 
cow-man  is  disgraceful.  You'll  come  down  to 
herdin*  sheep  if  you  keeps  on  surrenderin'  yourse'f 
to  sech  sloppy  bluffs.' 

"  '  See  yere,  Dan,'  retorts  Thompson,  an'  his  eye 
turns  red  on  Boggs  ;  '  my  feelin's  may  be  bowed 
onder  losses  which  sech  nachers  as  yours  is  too 
coarse  to  feel,  but  you  can  gamble  your  bottom 
dollar,  jest  the  same,  I  will  still  resent  insultin'  crit 
icisms.  I  advises  you  to  be  careful  an'  get  your 
chips  down  right  when  you  addresses  me,  or  you 
may  quit  loser  on  the  deal.' 

"  '  Now  you're  a  couple  of  fine  three-year-olds  !  ' 
breaks  in  Jack  Moore.  '  Yere  we  be,  all  onbuckled 
an'  fraternal,  an'  Enright  on  the  brink  of  a  love 
romance  by  the  ardent  requests  of  Nell,  an'  you 
two  longhorns  has  to  come  prancin'  out  an'  go 
pawin'  for  trouble.  You  know  mighty  well,  Texas, 
that  Boggs  is  your  friend  an'  the  last  gent  to  go 
harassin'  you  with  contoomely.' 

" '  Right  you  be,  Jack,'  says  Boggs  plenty 
prompt  ;  '  if  my  remarks  to  Texas  is  abrupt,  or  be 
trays  heat,  it's  doo  to  the  fact  that  it  exasperates 
me  to  see  the  most  elevated  gent  in  camp — for 


Death;  and  the  Donna  Anna*  185 

so  I  holds  Texas  Thompson  to  be — made  desolate 
by  the  wild  breaks  of  a  lady  who  don't  know  her 
own  mind,  an'  mighty  likely  ain't  got  no  mind  to 
know.' 

"  *  I  reckons  I'm  wrong,  Dan,'  says  Thompson, 
turnin'  apol'getic.  *  Let  it  all  go  to  the  diskyard. 
I'm  that  peevish  I  simply  ain't  fit  to  stay  yere  nor 
go  anywhere  else.  I  ain't  been  the  same  person 
since  my  wife  runs  cimmaron  that  time  an'  demands 
said  sep'ration.' 

"  '  Bein'  I'm  a  married  man,'  remarks  Dave  Tutt, 
sort  o'  gen'ral,  but  swellin'  out  his  chest  an'  puttin' 
on  a  lot  of  dog  at  the  same  time,  'an'  wedded  to 
Tucson  Jennie,  the  same  bein'  more  or  less  known, 
I  declines  all  partic'pation  in  discussions  touchin' 
the  sex.  I  could,  however,  yoonite  with  you-all  in 
another  drink,  an'  yereby  su'gests  the  same.  Bar- 
keep,  it's  your  play.' 

" '  That's  all  right  about  another  drink,'  says 
Faro  Nell,  '  but  I  wants  to  state  that  I  sympathizes 
with  Texas  in  them  wrongs.  I  has  my  views  of  a 
female  who  would  up  an'  abandon  a  gent  like  Texas 
Thompson,  an'  I  explains  it  only  on  the  theery 
that  she  shorely  must  have  been  coppered  in  her 
cradle.' 

'*  '  Nellie  onderstands  my  feelin's,'  says  Texas, 
an'  he's  plumb  mournful,  'an'  I  owes  her  for  them 
utterances.  However,  on  second  thought,  an'  even 
if  it  is  a  love  tale,  if  Enright  will  resoome  his  rela 
tions  touchin'  that  eepisode  of  the  Mexican  War, 
J  figgers  that  it  may  divert  me  from  them  divorce 


i86  Wolfville  Days, 

griefs  I  alloodes  to.  An',  at  any  rate,  win  or  lose, 
I  assures  Enright  his  efforts  will  be  regyardeoV 

"  Old  Man  Enright  takes  his  seegyar  out  of  his 
mouth  an'  rouses  up  a  bit.  He's  been  wropped  in 
thought  doorin'  the  argyments  of  Boggs  an'  Thomp 
son,  like  he's  tryin'  to  remember  a  far-off  past.  As 
Thompson  makes  his  appeal,  he  braces  up. 

'"  Now  that  Dan  an'  Texas  has  ceased  buckin',' 
says  Enright,  '  an'  each  has  all  four  feet  on  the 
ground,  I'll  try  an'  recall  them  details.  As  I 
remarks,  its  towards  the  close  of  the  Mexican  War. 
Whatever  I'm  doin'  in  that  carnage  is  a  conundrum 
that's  never  been  solved.  I  had  hardly  shed  my 
milk  teeth,  an'  was  only  'leven  hands  high  at  the  time. 
An'  I  ain't  so  strong  physical,  but  I  feels  the  weight 
of  my  spurs  when  I  walks.  As  I  looks  back  to  it, 
I  must  have  been  about  as  valyooable  an  aid  to  the 
gov'ment,  as  the  fifth  kyard  in  a  poker  hand  when 
four  of  a  kind  is  held.  The  most  partial  an* 
besotted  of  critics  would  have  conceded  that  if  I'd 
been  left  out  entire,  that  war  couldn't  have  suffered 
material  changes  in  its  results.  However,  to  get 
for'ard,  for  I  sees  that  Nellie's  patience  begins  to  mill 
an'  show  symptoms  of  comin'  stampede. 

"  '  It's  at  the  close  of  hostil'ties,'  goes  on  Enright, 
1  an'  the  company  I'm  with  is  layin'  up  in  the  hills 
about  forty  miles  back  from  Vera  Cruz,  dodgin' 
yellow  fever.  We  was  cavalry,  what  the  folks  in 
Tennessee  calls  a  "  critter  company,"  an',  hailin' 
mostly  from  that  meetropolis  or  its  vicinity,  we  was 
known  to  ourse'fs  at  least  as  the  "  Pine  Knot  Cava- 


Death;  and  the  Donna  Anna,  187 

Hers."  Thar's  a  little  Mexican  village  where  we  be 
that's  called  the  "  Plaza  Perdita."  An'  so  we  lays 
thar  at  the  Plaza  Perdita,  waitin'  for  orders  an' 
transportation  to  take  us  back  to  the  States. 

"  '  Which  most  likely  we're  planted  at  this  village 
about  a  month,  an'  the  Mexicans  is  beginnin'  to  get 
used  to  us  ;  an'  we  on  our  parts  is  playin'  monte,  an' 
eatin*  frijoles,  an'  accommodatin'  ourse'fs  to  the 
simple  life  of  the  place.  Onct  a  week  the  chaplain 
preaches  to  us.  He  holds  that  Mexico  is  a  pagan 
land  ;  an',  entertainin'  this  idee,  he  certainly  does 
make  onusual  efforts  to  keep  our  morals  close-herded, 
an'  our  souls  bunched  an'  banded  up  in  the  Christian 
faith,  as  expressed  by  the  Baptis'  church.  Candor, 
however,  compels  me  to  say  that  this  yere  pulpit 
person  can't  be  deescribed  as  a  heavy  winner  on  the 
play.' 

"  '  Was  you-all  so  awful  bad  ?  '  asks  Faro  Nell. 

"  '  No,'  replies  Enright,  '  we  ain't  so  bad  none  ; 
but  our  conduct  is  a  heap  onhampered,  which  is  the 
same  thing  to  the  chaplain.  He  gives  it  out  emphat 
ic,  after  bein'  with  the  Pine  Knot  Cavaliers  over  a 
year,  that  he  plumb  despairs  of  us  becomin'  chris- 
tians.' 

" '  Whatever  does  he  lay  down  on  you-all  like 
that  for?  '  says  Faro  Nell.  '  Couldn't  a  soldier  be  a 
Christian,  Daddy  Enright  ?  ' 

"  *  Why,  I  reckons  he  might,'  says  Enright,  he'pin' 
himse'f  to  a  drink;  'a  soldier  could  be  a  Christian, 
Nellie,  but  after  all  it  ain't  necessary. 

"  '  Still,  we-all   likes  the  chaplain    because  them 


1 88  Wolfville  Days* 

ministrations  of  his  is  entertainin'  ;  an',  for  that 
matter,  he  likes  us  a  lot,  an'  in  more  reelaxed  mo 
ments  allows  we  ain't  so  plumb  crim'nal — merely 
loose  like  on  p'ints  of  doctrine.' 

" '  Baptis'  folks  is  shore  strong  on  doctrines/  says 
Tutt,  coincidin'  in  with  Enright.  '  I  knows  that 
myse'f.  Doctrine  is  their  long  suit.  They'll  go  to 
any  len'ths  for  doctrines,  you  hear  me !  I  remembers 
once  ridin'  into  a  hamlet  back  in  the  Kaintucky 
mountains.  Thar  ain't  one  hundred  people  in  the 
village,  corral  count.  An'  yet  I  notes  two  church 
edifices. 

«  i «  You-all  is  plenty  opulent  on  sanctooaries," 
I  says  to  the  barkeep  at  the  tavern  where  I  camps 
for  the  night.  "  It's  surprising  too,  when  you  con 
siders  the  size  of  the  herd.  What  be  the  two 
deenom'nations  that  worships  at  them  structures?" 

"  '  "  Both  Baptis',"  says  the  barkeep. 

*' '  "  Whyever,  since  they're  ridin'  the  same  range 
an'  runnin'  the  same  brand,"  I  says,  "don't  they 
combine  like  cattle  folks  an'  work  their  round-ups 
together?" 

"  *  "  They  splits  on  doctrine,"  says  the  barkeep ; 
"  you  couldn't  get  'em  together  with  a  gun.  They 
disagrees  on  Adam.  That  outfit  in  the  valley  holds 
that  Adam  was  all  right  when  he  started,  but  later 
he  struck  something  an'  glanced  off  ;  them  up  on  the 
hill  contends  that  Adam  was  a  hoss-thief  from  the 
jump.  An'  thar  you  be  !  You  couldn't  reeconcile 
'ein  between  now  an' the  crack  of  doom.  Doctrines 
to  a  Baptis'  that  a-way  is  the  entire  check-rack." ' 


Death;  and  the  Donna  Anna.  189 

"  '  To  ag'in  pick  up  said  narratif,'  says  Enright, 
when  Tutt  subsides,  '  at  the  p'int  where  Dave  comes 
spraddlin'  in  with  them  onasked  reminiscences,  I 
may  say  that  a  first  source  of  pleasure  to  us,  if  not  of 
profit,  while  we  stays  at  the  Plaza  Perdita,  is  a  pas- 
sel  of  Mexicanos  with  a  burro  train  that  brings  us 
our  pulque  from  some'ers  back  further  into  the 
hills."' 

"What's  pulque?"  I  interjected. 

It  was  plain  that  my  old  gentleman  of  cows  as 
little  liked  my  interruption  as  Enright  liked  that  of 
the  volatile  Tutt.  He  hid  his  irritation,  however, 
under  an  iron  politeness  and  explained. 

"  Pulque  is  a  disapp'intin'  form  of  beverage, 
wharof  it  takes  a  bar'l  to  get  a  gent  drunk,"  he 
observed.  And  then,  with  some  severity :  "  It 
ain't  for  me  to  pull  no  gun  of  criticism,  but  I'm 
amazed  that  a  party  of  your  attainments,  son,  is 
ignorant  of  pulque.  It's,  as  I  says,  a  drink  ;  an'  it 
tastes  like  glucose  an'  looks  like  yeast.  It  comes 
from  a  plant,  what  the  Mexicans  calls '  maguey,'  an* 
Peets  calls  a  '  aloe.'  The  pulque  gatherers  scoops 
out  the  blossom  of  the  maguey  while  it's  a  bud. 
They  leaves  the  place  hollow ;  what  wood-choppers 
back  in  Tennessee,  when  I'm  a  colt,  deescribes  as 
'  bucketin'  the  stump.'  This  yere  hollow  fills  up 
with  oozin'  sap,  an'  the  Mexican  dips  out  two  gal 
lons  a  day  an  keeps  it  up  for  a  month.  That's 
straight  ;  sixty  gallons  from  one  maguey  before 
ever  it  quits  an*  refooses  to  further  turn  the  game. 
That's  pulque  ;  an'  when  them  Greasers  gathers 


1 90  Wolfville  Days. 

it,  they  puts  it  into  a  pigskin — skinned  com. 
plete,  the  pig  is  ;  them  pulque  receptacles  is  made  of 
the  entire  bark  of  the  anamile.  When  the  pulque's 
inside,  they  packs  it,  back  down  an*  hung  by  all 
four  laigs  to  the  saddle,  a  pigskin  on  each  side  of 
the  burro.  It's  gathered  the  evenin'  previous,  an' 
brought  into  camp  in  the  night  so  as  to  keep  it  cool. 

"  When  I'm  a  child,  an'  before  ever  I  connects 
myse'f  with  the  cow  trade,  if  thar's  a  weddin',  we- 
all  has  what  the  folks  calls  a  '  infare ; '  an'  I  can 
remember  a  old  lady  from  the  No'th  who  contree- 
butes  to  these  yere  festivals  a  drink  she  calls 
4  sprooce  beer.'  An'  pulque,  before  it  takes  to 
frettin'  an'  fermentiri'  'round,  in  them  pigskins, 
reminds  me  a  mighty  sight  of  that  sprooce  beer. 
Later  it  most  likely  reminds  you  of  the  pigskin. 

"  Mexican  barkeeps,  when  they  sells  pulque, 
aims  to  dispose  of  it  two  glasses  at  a  clatter. 
It  gives  their  conceit  a  chance  to  spread  itse'f  an' 
show.  The  pulque  is  in  a  tub  down  back  of  the 
bar.  This  yere  vain  Mexican  seizes  two  glasses 
between  his  first  an*  second  fingers,  an'  with  a  fin 
ger  in  each  glass.  Then  he  dips  'em  full  back 
handed  ;  an'  allers  comes  up  with  the  back  of  his 
hand  an'  the  two  fingers  covered  with  pulque.  He 
claps  'em  on  the  bar,  eyes  you  a  heap  sooperior 
like  he's  askin*  you  to  note  what  a  acc'rate,  high- 
grade  barkeep  he  is,  an*  then  raisin*  his  hand,  he 
slats  the  pulque  off  his  fingers  into  the  two  glasses. 
If  he  spatters  a  drop  on  the  bar,  it  shows  he's  a 
bungler,  onfit  for  his  high  p'sition,  an*  oughter  be 


Death;  and  the  Donna  Anna*  191 

out   on    the   hills   tendin'  goats  instead  of  dealin' 
pulque. 

"  What  do  they  do  with  the  sour  pulque?  Make 
me  ;cal  of  it — a  sort  o'  brandy,  two  hookers  of 
which  changes  you  into  a  robber.  No,  thar's 
mighty  few  still-houses  in  Mexico.  But  that's  no 
set-back  to  them  Greasers  when  they're  out  to  con 
struct  mescal.  As  a  roole  Mexicans  is  slow  an 
oninventive;  but  when  the  question  becomes  the 
arrangement  of  somethin*  to  be  drunk  with,  they're 
plenty  fertile.  Jest  by  way  of  raw  material,  if  you'll 
only  confer  on  a  Mexican  a  kettle,  a  rifle  bar'l,  a 
saddle  cover,  an'  a  pigskin  full  of  sour  pulque,  he'll 
be  conductin'  a  mescal  still  in  full  blast  at  the  end 
of  the  first  hour.  But  to  go  back  to  Enright'syarn. 

"  *  These  yere  pulque  people/  says  Enright,  *  does 
a  fa'rly  rapid  commerce.  For  while,  as  you-all 
may  know,  pulque  is  tame  an'  lacks  in  reebound  as 
compared  with  nose-paint,  still  when  pulque  is  the 
best  thar  is,  the  Pine  Knot  Cavaliers  of  the  Plaza 
Perdita  invests  heavily  tharin.  That  pulque's  jest 
about  a  stand-off  for  the  chaplain's  sermons. 

"  *  It's  the  fourth  trip  of  the  pulque  sellers,  when 
the  Donna  Anna  shows  in  the  door.  The  Donna 
Anna  arrives  with  'em ;  an*  the  way  she  bosses 
'round,  an'  sets  fire  to  them  pulque  slaves,  notifies 
me  they're  the  Donna  Anna's  peonies. 

"  '  I'm  sort  o'  pervadin'  about  the  plaza  when  the 
Donna  Anna  rides  up.  Thar's  an  old  she-wolf  with 
her  whose  name  is  Magdalena.  I'm  not  myse'f 
what  they  calls  in  St.  Looey  a  "connoshur"  of 


192  Wolfville  Days. 

female  loveliness,  an'  it's  a  pity  now  that  so'fle 
gifted  gent  like  Doc  Peets  yere  don't  see  this 
Donna  Anna  that  time,  so's  he  could  draw  you  her 
picture,  verbal.  All  I'm  able  to  state  is  that  <  he's 
as  beautiful  as  a  cactus  flower  ;  an'  as  vivid.  She's 
tall  an*  strong  for  a  Mexican,  with  a  voice  like  vel 
vet,  graceful  as  a  mountain  lion,  an'  with  eyes  that's 
soft  an'  deep  an'  black,  like  a  deer's.  She's  shorely 
a  lovely  miracle,  the  Donna  Anna  is  ;  an'  as  dark 
an'  as  warm  an'  as  full  of  life  as  a  night  in  Joone. 
She's  of  the  grande ;  foi  the  mule  she's  ridin', 
gent-fashion,  is  worth  forty  ponies.  Its  coat  is 
soft,  an'  shiny  like  this  yere  watered  silk,  while  its 
mane  an'  tail  is  braided  with  a  hundred  little  silver 
bells.  The  Donna  Anna  is  dressed  half  Mexican 
an'  half  Injun,  an'  thar's  likewise  a  row  of  bells 
about  the  wide  brim  of  her  Chihuahua  hat. 

"  '  Thar's  mebby  a  half-dozen  of  us  standin'  'round 
when  the  Donna  Anna  comes  up.  Nacherally,  we- 
all  is  interested.  The  Donna  Anna,  bein'  only 
eighteen  an'  a  Mexican,  is  not  abashed.  She  waves 
her  hand  an'  says,  "  How  !  how  ! "  Injun  fashion, 
an'  gives  us  a  white  flash  of  teeth  between  her  red 
lips.  Then  a  band  of  nuns  comes  out  of  a  little 
convent,  which  is  one  of  the  public  improvements 
of  the  Plaza  Perdita,  an'  they  rounds  up  the  Donna 
Anna  an'  the  wrinkled  Magdalena,  an'  takes  'em 
into  camp.  The  Donna  Anna  an'  the  other  is 
camped  in  the  convent  doorin'  the  visit.  No, 
they're  not  locked  up  nor  gyarded,  an'  the  Donna 
Anna  comes  an'  goes  in  an'  out  of  that  convent  as 


Death;  and  the  Donna  Anna.  193 

free  as  birds.  The  nuns,  too,  bow  before  her  like 
her  own  peonies. 

"  '  Thar's  a  Lootenant  Jack  Spencer  with  us  ;  he 
hails  from  further  up  the  Cumberland  than  me — • 
some'ers  near  Nashville.  He's  light-ha'red  an' 
light-hearted,  Spencer  is ;  an'  as  straight  an'  as 
strong  as  a  pine-tree.  S'ciety  ain't  throwin'  out 
no  skirmish  lines  them  days,  an'  of  course  Spencer 
an'  the  Donna  Anna  meets  up  with  each  other  ; 
an'  from  the  onbroken  hours  they  tharafter  pro 
ceeds  to  invest  in  each  other's  company,  one  is 
jestified  in  assoomin'  they  experiences  a  tender 
interest.  The  Donna  Anna  can't  talk  Americano, 
but  Spencer  is  a  sharp  on  Spanish  ;  an'  you  can  bet 
a  pony,  if  he  wasn't,  he'd  set  to  studyin'  the  lan 
guage  right  thar. 

"  '  Nothin'  much  is  thought  by  the  Pine  Knot 
Cavaliers  of  an'  concernin'  the  attitoodes  of  Spen 
cer  an'  the  Donna  Anna  touchin'  one  another. 
Love  it  might  be,  an'  less  we  cares  for  that.  Our 
army,  when  it  ain't  fightin',  is  makin'  love  through 
out  the  entire  Mexican  War  ;  an'  by  the  time  we're 
at  the  Plaza  Perdita,  love,  mere  everyday  love, 
either  as  a  emotion  or  exhibition,  is  plenty  com 
monplace.  An'  so  no  one  is  interested,  an'  no  one 
keeps  tabs  on  Spencer  an'  the  Donna  Anna. 
Which,  if  any  one  had,  he'd  most  likely  got  ag'inst 
Spencer's  gun  ;  wharfore,  it's  as  well  mebby  that 
this  yere  lack-luster  feelin'  prevails. 

"  *  It's  about  the  tenth  day  since  the  Donna  Anna 
gladdens  us  first.  Orders  comes  up  from  Vera 


194  Wolfville  Days. 

Cruz  for  the  Pine  Knot  Cavaliers  to  come  down  to 
the  coast  an'  embark  for  New  Orleans.  The  word 
is  passed,  an'  our  little  jimcrow  camp  buzzes  like 
bees,  with  us  gettin'  ready  to  hit  the  trail.  Spencer 
asks  "  leave  ;  "  an'  then  saddles  up  an'  starts  at  once. 
He  says  he's  got  a  trick  or  two  to  turn  in  Vera 
Cruz  before  we  sails.  That's  the  last  we-all  ever 
beholds  of  Lootenant  Jack  Spencer. 

"  *  When  Spencer  don't  show  up  none  in  Vera 
Cruz,  an*  the  ship  throws  loose  without  him,  he's 
marked,  "  missin',"  on  the  company's  books.  If 
he's  a  private,  now,  it  would  have  been  "  de 
serted  ; "  but  bein'  Spencer's  an  officer,  they  makes 
it  "  missin'."  An'  they  gets  it  right,  at  that ; 
Spencer  is  shorely  missin'.  Spencer  not  only  don't 
come  back  to  Tennessee  none  ;  he  don't  even  send 
no  word  nor  make  so  much  as  a  signal  smoke  to 
let  on  whar  he's  at.  This  yere,  to  some,  is  more  or 
less  disapp'intin'. 

"  '  Thar's  a  lady  back  in  Tennessee  which  Spen 
cer's  made  overtures  to,  before  he  goes  to  war 
that  time,  to  wed.  Young  she  is ;  beautiful,  high- 
grade,  corn-fed,  an'  all  that  ;  an'  comes  of  one  of 
the  most  clean-bred  fam'lies  of  the  whole  Cumber 
land  country.  I  will  interject  right  yere  to  say  that 
thar's  ladies  of  two  sorts.  If  a  loved  one,  tender 
an*  troo,  turns  up  missin'  at  roll-call,  an'  the  phe 
nomenon  ain't  accompanied  with  explanations,  one 
sort  thinks  he's  quit,  an'  the  other  thinks  he's  killed. 
Spencer's  inamorata  is  of  the  former.  She's  got 
what  the  neighbors  calls  "  hoss  sense."  She  listens 


Death;  and  the  Donna  Anna,  195 

to  what  little  thar  is  to  tell  of  Spencer  fadin'  from 
our  midst  that  Plaza  Perdita  day,  shrugs  her 
shoulders,  an'  turns  her  back  on  Spencer's  mem'ry. 
An'  the  next  news  you  gets  is  of  how,  inside  of 
three  months,  she  jumps  some  gent — who's  off  his 
gyard  an'  is  lulled  into  feelin's  of  false  secoority — 
ropes,  throws,  ties  an'  weds  him  a  heap,  an'  he 
wakes  up  to  find  he's  a  gone  fawn-skin,  an'  to  realize 
his  peril  after  he's  onder  its  hoofs.  That's  what 
this  Cumberland  lady  does.  I  makes  no  comments  ; 
I  simply  relates  it  an'  opens  a  door  an'  lets  her  out. 

"  '  I'm  back  in  Tennessee  mighty  nigh  a  year 
before  ever  I  hears  ag'in  of  Lootenant  Jack  Spen 
cer  of  the  Pine  Knot  Cavaliers.  It's  this  a-way  : 
I'm  stoppin'  with  my  old  gent  near  Warwhoop 
Crossin',  the  same  bein'  a  sister  village  to  Pine 
Knot,  when  he's  recalled  to  my  boyish  mind.  It 
looks  like  Spencer  ain't  got  no  kin  nearer  than  a 
aunt,  an'  mebby  a  stragglin'  herd  of  cousins.  He 
never  does  have  no  brothers  nor  sisters  ;  an'  as  for 
fathers  an'  mothers  an'  sech,  they  all  cashes  in  be 
fore  ever  Spencer  stampedes  off  for  skelps  in  that 
Mexican  War  at  all. 

u<  These  yere  kin  of  Spencer's  stands  his  absence 
ca'mly,  an*  no  one  hears  of  their  settin*  up  nights, 
or  losin*  sleep,  wonderin'  where  he's  at.  Which  I 
don't  reckon  now  they'd  felt  the  least  cur'ous  con- 
cernin'  him — for  they're  as  cold-blooded  as  channel 
catfish — if  it  ain't  that  Spencer's  got  what  them  law 
coyotes  calls  a  "  estate,"  an*  this  property  sort  o* 
presses  their  hands.  So  it  falls  out  like,  that  along 


196  Wolfvillc  Days* 

at  the  last  of  the  year,  a  black-coat  party — lawyef 
he  is — comes  breezin'  up  to  me  in  Warwhoop  an' 
says  he's  got  to  track  this  yere  Spencer  to  his  last 
camp,  dead  or  alive,  an'  allows  I'd  better  sign  for 
the  round-up  an'  accompany  the  expedition  as 
guide,  feelos'pher  an'  friend — kind  o'  go  'long  an' 
scout  for  the  campaign. 

"  '  Two  months  later  me  an'  that  law  sharp  is  in 
the  Plaza  Perdita.  We  heads  up  for  the  padre. 
It's  my  view  from  the  first  dash  outen  the  box  that 
the  short  cut  to  find  Spencer  is  to  acc'rately  dis 
cover  the  Donna  Anna  ;  so  we  makes  a  line  for  the 
padre.  In  Mexico,  the  priests  is  the  only  folks  who 
saveys  anythin' ;  an',  as  if  to  make  up  for  the  hoo- 
miliatin'  ignorance  of  the  balance  of  the  herd,  an* 
promote  a  average,  these  yere  priests  jest  about 
knows  everythin'.  An*  I  has  hopes  of  this  par- 
tic'lar  padre  speshul ;  for  I  notes  that,  doorin'  them 
times  when  Spencer  an'  the  Donna  Anna  is  dazzlin' 
one  another  at  the  Plaza  Perdita,  the  padre  is  sort 
o'  keepin'  cases  on  the  deal,  an'  tryin'  as  well  as  he 
can  to  hold  the  bars  an'  fences  up  through  some 
covert  steers  he  vouchsafes  from  time  to  time  to  the 
old  Magdalena. 

"  '  No  ;  you  bet  this  padre  don't  at  that  time  wax 
vocif'rous  or  p'inted  none  about  Spencer  an*  the 
Donna  Anna.  Which  he's  afraid  if  he  gets  ob 
noxious  that  a-way,  the  Pine  Knot  Cavaliers  will 
rope  him  up  a  lot  an'  trade  him  for  beef.  Shore ! 
don't  you-all  know  that?  When  we're  down  in 
Mexico  that  time,  with  old  Zach  Taylor,  an'  needs 


Death;  and  the  Donna  Anna*  197 

meat,  we  don't  go  ridin'  our  mounts  to  death  comb- 
in'  the  hills  for  steers.  All  we  does  is  round  up  a 
band  of  padres,  or  monks,  an*  then  trade  'em  to 
their  par'lyzed  congregations  for  cattle.  We  used 
to  get  about  ten  steers  for  a  padre  ;  an*  we  doles  out 
them  divines,  one  at  a  time,  as  we  needs  the  beef. 
It's  shorely  a  affectin'  sight  to  see  them  parish'ners, 
with  tears  runnin'  down  their  faces,  drivin'  up  the 
cattle  an'  takin'  them  religious  directors  of  theirs 
out  o'  hock. 

u '  We  finds  the  padre  out  back  of  his  wickeyup, 
trimmin'  up  a  game-cock  that  he's  matched  to  fight 
the  next  day.  The  padre  is  little,  fat,  round,  an' 
amiable  as  owls.  Nacherally,  I  has  to  translate  for 
him  an'  the  law  sport. 

"  '  "  You  do  well  to  come  to  me,  my  children,"  he 
says.  "The  Seflor  Juan" — that's  what  the  padre 
calls  Spencer — "  the  Seftor  Juan  is  dead.  It  is  ten 
days  since  he  passed.  The  Donna  Anna  ?  She 
also  is  dead  an'  with  the  Seflor  Juan.  We  must  go 
to  the  Hacienda  Tulorosa,  which  is  the  house  of 
the  Donna  Anna.  That  will  be  to-morrow.  Mean 
while,  who  is  to  protect  Juarez,  my  beloved  chicken, 
in  his  battle  when  I  will  be  away  ?  Ah !  I  re 
member !  The  Don  Jose  Miguel  will  do.  He  is 
skilful  of  cocks  of  the  game.  Also  he  has  bet 
money  on  Juarez  ;  so  he  will  be  faithful.  There 
fore,  to-morrow,  my  children,  we  will  go  to  the 
Donna  Anna's  house.  There  I  will  tell  you  the 
story  of  the  Seflor  Juan." 

"  '  The  Hacienda  Tulorosa  is  twenty  miles  back 


198  Wolfvilie  Days, 

further  in  the  hills.  The  padre,  the  law  sharp  an 
me  is  started  before  sun-up,  an'  a  good  road-gait 
fetches  us  to  the  Hacienda  Tulorosa  in  a  couple  of 
hours.  It's  the  sort  of  a  ranch  which  a  high  grade 
Mexican  with  a  strong  bank-roll  would  throw  up. 
It's  built  all  'round  a  court,  with  a  flower  garden 
and  a  fountain  in  the  centre.  As  we  comes  up,  I 
observes  the  old  Magdalena  projectin'  about  the 
main  door  of  the  casa,  stirrin'  up  some  lazy  peonies 
to  their  daily  toil — which,  to  use  the  word  "  toil," 
however,  in  connection  with  a  Greaser,  is  plumb 
sarcastic.  The  padre  leads  us  into  the  casa,  an'  the 
bitter-lookin'  Magdalena  hustles  us  some  grub  ; 
after  which  we-all  smokes  a  bit.  Then  the  padre 
gets  up  an'  leads  the  way. 

"  ' "  Come,  my  children,"  says  the  padre,  "  I  will 
show  you  the  graves.  Then  you  shall  hear  what 
there  is  of  the  Seftor  Juan  an'  the  Donna  Anna." 

"'It's  a  set-back,'  continyoos  Enright,  as  he 
signals  Black  Jack  the  barkeep  to  show  us  he's 
awake ;  *  it's  shorely  a  disaster  that  some  book-in 
structed  gent  like  Peets  or  Colonel  Sterett  don't 
hear  this  padre  when  he  makes  them  revelations 
that  day.  Not  that  I  overlooks  a  bet,  or  don't  re 
call  'em  none ;  but  I  ain't  upholstered  with  them 
elegancies  of  diction  needed  to  do  'em  justice  now. 
My  language  is  roode  an'  corrupted  with  years  of 
sech  surroundin's  as  cattle  an'  kyards.  It's  too 
deeply  freighted  with  the  slang  of  the  plains  an'  the 
faro-banks  to  lay  forth  a  tale  of  love  an'  tenderness, 
as  the  o'casion  demands.  Of  course,  I  can  read  an' 


Death;  and  the  Donna  Anna*  199 

write  common  week-day  print  ;  but  when  thar's  a 
call  for  more,  I'm  mighty  near  as  illit'rate  that 
a-way  as  Boggs.' 

" '  Which,  as  you  su'gests,  I'm  plumb  ignorant/ 
admits  Boggs,  '  but  it  ain't  the  fault  none  of  my 
bringin'  up  neither.  It  jest  looks  like  I  never  can 
learn  print  nohow  when  I'm  young.  I'm  simply 
born  book-shy,  an'  is  terrified  at  schools  from  my 
cradle.  An',  say !  I'm  yere  to  express  my  regrets 
at  them  weaknesses.  If  I  was  a  eddicated  gent  like 
Doc  Peets  is,  you  can  put  down  all  you  has,  I'd  be 
the  cunnin'est  wolf  that  ever  yelps  in  Cochise 
County/ 

"  '  An'  thar  ain't  no  doubt  of  that,  Boggs,'  ob 
serves  Enright,  as  he  reorganizes  to  go  ahead  with 
them  Donna  Anna  mem'ries  of  his.  *  Which  if  you 
only  has  a  half  of  Peets'  game  now,  you'd  be  the 
hardest  thing — mental — to  ride  that  ever  invades 
the  Southwest.  Nacherally,  an'  in  a  wild  an'  on- 
trained  way,  you're  wise.  But  to  resoome:  As 
much  as  I  can,  I'll  give  the  padre  in  his  own  words. 
He  takes  us  out  onder  a  huddle  of  pine  trees,  where 
thar's  two  graves  side  by  side,  an'  with  a  big  cross 
of  wood  standin'  gyard  at  the  head.  Thar's  quite  a 
heap  o'  rocks,  about  as  big  as  your  shet  hand, 
heaped  up  on  'em.  It's  the  Mexicans  does  that. 
Every  Greaser  who  goes  by,  says  a  pray'r,  an' 
tosses  a  rock  on  the  grave.  When  we-all  is  camped 
comfortable,  the  padre  begins. 

"  '  "  This  is  that  which  was  with  the  Sefior  Juan 
and  the  Donna  Anna,"  lie  says.  "  They  adored 


200  Wolfville  Days, 

each  other  with  their  hearts.  It  was  many  months 
ago  when,  from  the  Plaza  Perdita,  they  came  to 
gether  here  to  the  Donna  Anna's  house,  the  Haci 
enda  Tulorosa.  Who  was  the  Donna  Anna?  Her 
mother  was  an  Indian,  a  Navajo,  and  the  child  of 
a  head  man.  Her  father  was  the  Sefior  Ravel,  a 
captain  of  war  he  was,  and  the  Americanos  slew 
him  at  Buena  Vista.  No ;  they  were  not  married, 
the  father  and  the  mother  of  the  Donna  Anna. 
But  what  then?  There  are  more  children  than 
weddings  in  Mexico.  Also  the  mother  of  the 
Donna  Anna  was  a  Navajo.  The  Captain  Ravel 
long  ago  brought  her  to  the  Hacienda  Tulorosa  for 
her  home — her  and  the  Donna  Anna.  But  the 
mother  lived  not  long,  for  the  Indian  dies  in  a 
house.  This  is  years  gone  by  ;  and  the  Donna 
Anna  always  lived  at  the  Casa  Tulorosa. 

"'"No;  the  Seiior  Juan  and  the  Donna  Anna 
do  not  marry.  They  might  ;  but  the  Sefior  Juan 
became  like  a  little  child — muchachito.  This  was 
within  a  few  days  after  he  came  here.  Then  he 
lived  until  ten  days  ago ;  but  always  a  little  child. 

"'"When  the  Sefior  Juan  is  dead,  the  Donna 
Anna  sends  for  me.  The  Sefior  Juan  is  ready  for 
the  grave  when  I  arrive.  '  Is  it  to  bury  him  that  I 
come  ?  '  I  ask.  '  No  ;  it  is  to  bury  me,'  says  the 
Donna  Anna.  Ah !  she  was  very  beautiful !  the 
Donna  Anna.  You  should  have  seen  her,  my 
children. 

"  '  "  When  the  Sefior  Juan  is  laid  away,  the  Donna 
Anna  tells  me  all.  l  He  came,  the  Senor  Juan/ 


Death;  and  the  Donna  Anna*  201 

says  the  Donna  Anna,  '  and  I  gave  him  all  my  love. 
But  in  a  day  he  was  to  have  gone  to  his  home  far 
away  with  the  Americanos.  Then  I  would  never 
more  see  him  nor  hear  him,  and  my  soul  would 
starve  and  die.  There,  too,  was  a  Senorita,  an 
Americana;  she  would  have  my  place.  Father, 
what  could  I  do  ?  I  gave  him  the  loco  to  drink  ; 
not  much,  but  it  was  enough.  Then  his  memory 
sank  and  sank  ;  and  he  forgot  the  Senorita  Ameri 
cana  ;  and  he  remembered  not  to  go  away  to  his 
home ;  and  he  became  like  a  little  child  with  me. 
The  good  loco  drove  every  one  from  his  heart ;  and 
all  from  his  mind — all,  save  me,  the  Donna  Anna. 
I  was  the  earth  and  the  life  to  him.  And  so,  night 
and  day,  since  he  came  until  now  he  dies,  my  arms 
and  my  heart  have  been  about  the  Sefior  Juan. 
And  I  have  been  very,  very  happy  with  my  mucha- 
chito,  the  Sefior  Juan.  Yes,  I  knew  he  would  go  ; 
because  none  may  live  who  drinks  the  loco.  But 
it  would  be  months  ;  and  I  did  not  care.  He  would 
be  mine,  ever  my  own,  the  Sefior  Juan  ;  for  when 
he  died,  could  I  not  die  and  follow  him  ?  We 
were  happy  these  months  with  the  flowers  and  the 
fountain  and  each  other.  I  was  happier  than  he  ; 
for  I  was  like  the  mother,  and  he  like  a  little  child. 
But  it  was  much  peace  with  love  !  And  we  will 
be  happy  again  to-morrow  when  I  go  where  he 
waits  to  meet  me.  Father,  you  are  to  remain  one 
day,  and  see  that  I  am  buried  with  the  Sefior  Juan.' 
"  '  "  Then,"  goes  on  the  padre,  "  I  say  to  the 
Donna  Anna  ,  *  If  you  are  to  seek  the  Sefior  Juan, 


202  Wolfville  Days* 

you  will  first  kneel  in  prayer  and  in  confession,  and 
have  the  parting  rites  of  the  church.'  But  the 
Donna  Anna  would  not.  *  I  will  go  as  went  the 
Senor  Juan,'  she  says  ;  '  else  I  may  find  another 
heaven  and  we  may  not  meet.'  Nor  could  I  move 
the  Donna  Anna  from  her  resolution.  '  The  Senor 
Juan  is  a  heretic  and  must  now  be  in  perdition,'  I 
say.  t  Then  will  I,  too,  go  there,'  replies  the  Donna 
Anna,  '  for  we  must  be  together;  I  and  the  Senor 
Juan.  He  is  mine  and  I  will  not  give  him  up  to  be 
alone  with  the  fiends  or  with  the  angels.'  So  I 
say  no  more  to  the  Donna  Anna  of  the  church. 

"  *  "  On  the  day  to  follow  the  burial  of  the  Senor 
Juan,  it  is  in  the  afternoon  when  the  Donna  Anna 
comes  to  me.  Oh  !  she  was  twice  lovely  !  '  Father,' 
she  says,  '  I  come  to  say  my  adios.  When  the  hour 
is  done  you  will  seek  me  by  the  grave  of  my  Senor 
Juan.'  Then  she  turns  to  go.  *  And  adios  to  you, 
my  daughter,'  I  say,  as  she  departs  from  my  view. 
And  so  I  smoke  my  cigars  ;  and  when  the  hour  is 
done,  I  go  also  to  the  grave  of  the  Senor  Juan — 
the  new  grave,  just  made,  with  its  low  hill  of  warm, 
fresh  earth. 

"  '  "True  !  it  was  as  you  guess.  There,  with  her 
face  on  that  little  round  of  heaped-up  earth,  lay  the 
Donna  Anna.  And  all  the  blood  of  her  heart  had 
made  red  the  grave  of  her  Senor  Juan.  The  little 
knife  she  died  by  was  still  in  her  hand.  No,  I  do 
not  fear  for  them,  my  children.  They  are  with  the 
good;  the  Donna  Anna  and  her  Senor  Juan.  They 
were  guiltless  of  all  save  love ;  and  the  good  God 
does  not  punish  love."  '  " 


CHAPTER  XIV. 
How  Jack  Rainey  Quit. 

"CUSTOMARY,  we  has  our  social  round-ups  in  the 
Red  Light,"  observed  the  Old  Cattleman;  "which 
I  mentions  once  it  does  us  for  a  club.  We're  all 
garnered  into  said  fold  that  time  when  Dave  Tutt 
tells  us  how  this  yere  Jack  Rainey  quits  out. 

"  '  Rainey  gets  downed,'  says  Tutt, '  mainly  because 
his  system's  obscoore,  an'  it  chances  that  a  stranger 
who  finds  himse'f  immeshed  tharin  takes  it  plumb 
ombrageous ;  an*  pendin'  explanations,  gets  tangled 
up  with  a  pard  of  Rainey's,  goes  to  a  gun  play, 
an'  all  accidental  an'  casooal  Rainey  wings  his  way 
to  them  regions  of  the  blest. 

"  '  Now  I  allers  holds,'  goes  on  Tutt,  '  an'  still 
swings  an'rattles  with  that  decision,  that  it's  manners 
to  ask  strangers  to  drink  ;  an'  that  no  gent,  onless 
he'sa  sky-pilot  or  possesses  scrooples  otherwise,  has  a 
right  to  refoose.  Much  less  has  a  gent,  bein'  thus 
s'licited  to  licker,  any  license  to  take  it  hostile  an* 
allow  he's  insulted,  an'  lay  for  his  entertainers  with 
weepons.' 

"'Well,  I  don't  know,  neither,'  says  Texas 
Thompson,  who's  a  heap  dispootatious  an'  allers 
spraddlin'  in  on  every  chance  for  an  argyment. 


204  Wolfville  Days* 

*  Thar's  a  party,  now  deceased  a  whole  lot — th< 
Stranglers  over  in  Socorro  sort  o'  chaperone; 
this  yere  gent  to  a  cottonwood  an*  excloodes  the  aii 
from  his  lungs  with  a  lariat  for  mebby  it's  an  hou: 
— an'  this  party  I'm  alloodin'  at,  which  his  name  i< 
Fowler,  is  plumb  murderous.  Now,  it's  frequenl 
with  him  when  he's  selected  a  victim  that  a-way,  an 
while  he's  bickerin'  with  him  up  to  the  killin'  p'int 
to  invite  said  sacrifice  to  take  a  drink.  Wher 
they're  ag'inst  the  bar,  this  yere  Fowler  we-al 
strangles  would  pour  out  a  glass  of  whiskey  an 
chuck  it  in  the  eyes  of  that  onfortunate  he's  out  tc 
down.  Of  course,  while  this  party's  blind  with  the 
nose-paint,  he's  easy ;  an'  Fowler  tharupon  c'llect' 
his  skelp  in  manner,  form  an*  time  to  suit  his  tastes 
Now  I  takes  it  that  manners  don't  insist  none 
on  no  gent  frontin'  up  to  a  bar  on  the  invite  of  seer 
felons  as  Fowler,  when  a  drink  that  a-way  means  c 
speshul  short-cut  to  the  tomb.' 

"  '  All  this  yere  may  be  troo,'  replies  Tutt,  '  but 
it's  a  exception.  What  I  insists  is,  Texas,  that 
speakin'  wide  an'  free  an'  not  allowin'  none  foi 
sports  of  the  Fowler  brand,  it's  manners  to  asl 
strangers  to  stand  in  on  what  beverages  is  goin' 
an'  that  it's  likewise  manners  for  said  strangers  tc 
accept ;  an'  it  shows  that  both  sides  concernec 
tharin  is  well  brought  up  by  their  folks.  Seel 
p'liteness  is  manners,  goin'  an'  comin',  which  bring! 
me  with  graceful  swoops  back  to  how  Jack  Rainej 
gets  shot  up.' 

"  *  But,    after    all,'  breaks  in  Texas  ag'in,  for  he 


How  Jack  Raincy  Quit.  205 

feels  wranglesome,  *  manners  is  frequent  a  question 
of  where  you  be.  What's  manners  in  St.  Looey 
may  be  bad  jedgment  in  Texas ;  same  as  some 
commoonities  plays  straights  in  poker,  while  thar's 
regions  where  straights  is  barred.' 

4<  '  Texas  is  dead  right  about  his  State  that 
a-way,'  says  Jack  Moore,  who's  heedin'  of  the  talk. 
'  Manners  is  a  heap  more  inex'rable  in  Texas  than 
other  places.  I  recalls  how  I'm  galivantin'  'round 
in  the  Panhandle  country — it's  years  ago  when  I'm 
young  an'  recent — an'  as  I'm  ridin'  along  south  of 
the  Canadian  one  day,  I  discerns  a  pony  an'  a  gent 
an'  a  fire,  an'  what  looks  like  a  yearlin'  calf  tied 
down.  I  knows  the  pony  for  Lem  Woodruff's  cay- 
ouse,  an'  heads  over  to  say  "  Howdy  "  to  Lem. 
He's  about  half  a  mile  away;  when  of  a  sudden  he 
stands  up — he's  been  bendin'  over  the  yearlin'  with 
a  runnin'  iron  in  his  hand — an'  gives  a  whoop  an' 
makes  some  copious  references  towards  me  with 
his  hands.  I  wonders  what  for  a  game  he's  puttin' 
up,  an'  whatever  is  all  this  yere  sign-language  likely 
to  mean  ;  but  I  keeps  ridin'  for'ard.  It's  then  this 
Woodruff  steps  over  to  his  pony,  an'  takin*  his 
Winchester  off  the  saddle,  cuts  down  with  it  in  my 
direction,  an'  onhooks  her — "  Bang!"  The  bullet 
raises  the  dust  over  about  fifty  yards  to  the  right. 
Nacherally  I  pulls  up  my  pony  to  consider  this 
conduct.  While  I'm  settin'  thar  tryin'  to  figger  out 
Woodruff's  system,  thar  goes  that  Winchester 
ag'in,  an'  a  streak  of  dust  lifts  up,  say,  fifty  yards  to 
the  left.  I  then  sees  Lem  objects  to  me.  I  don  t 


206  Wolfville  Days* 

like  no  gent  to  go  carpin'  an'  criticism'  at  me  with  a 
gun  ;  but  bavin'  a  Winchester  that  a-way,  this  yere 
Woodruff  can  overplay  me  with  only  a  six-shooter, 
so  I  quits  him  an'  rides  contemptuous  away.  As  I 
withdraws,  he  hangs  his  rifle  on  his  saddle  ag'in, 
picks  up  his  runnin'  iron  an'  goes  back  content  an* 
all  serene  to  his  maverick.'" 

"  What  is  a  maverick?  "  I  asked,  interrupting  my 
friend  in  the  flow  of  his  narration. 

"  Why,  I  s'posed,"  he  remarked,  a  bit  testily  at 
being  halted,  "  as  how  even  shorthorns  an*  tender- 
feet  knows  what  mavericks  is.  Mavericks,  son,  is 
calves  which  gets  sep'rated  from  the  old  cows,  their 
mothers,  an'  ain't  been  branded  none  yet.  They're 
bets  which  the  round-ups  overlooks,  an'  don't  get 
marked.  Of  course,  when  they  drifts  from  their 
mothers,  each  calf  for  himse'f,  an*  no  brands  nor 
y'ear  marks,  no  one  can  tell  whose  calves  they  be. 
They  ain't  branded,  an'  the  old  cows  ain't  thar  to 
identify  an'  endorse  'em,  an*  thar  you  stands  in 
ignorance.  Them's  mavericks. 

"It  all  comes,"  he  continued  in  further  elucida 
tion  of  mavericks,  "  when  cattle  brands  is  first 
invented  in  Texas.  The  owners,  whose  cattle  is  all 
mixed  up  on  the  ranges,  calls  ameetin'  to  decide  on 
brands,  so  each  gent'll  know  his'own  when  he  crosses 
up  with  it,  an*  won't  get  to  burnin*  powder  w^h  his 
neighbors  over  a  steer  which  breeds  an'  fosters 
doubts.  After  every  party  announces  what  his 
brand  an'  y'ear  mark  will  be,  an*  the  same  is  put 
down  in  the  book,  a  old  longhorn  named  Maverick 


How  Jack  Raincy  Quit.  207 

addresses  the  meetin',  an*  puts  it  up  if  so  be  thar's 
no  objection,  now  they  all  has  brands  but  him, 
he'll  let  his  cattle  lope  without  markin',  an'  every 
gent'll  savey  said  Maverick's  cattle  because  they 
won't  have  no  brand.  Cattle  without  brands,  that 
a-way,  is  to  belong  to  Maverick,  that's  the  scheme, 
an*  as  no  one  sees  no  reason  why  not,  they  lets  old 
Maverick's  proposal  go  as  it  lays. 

"  An'  to  cut  her  short,  for  obv'ous  reasons,  it  ain't 
no  time  before  Maverick,  claimin'  all  the  onbranded 
cattle,  has  herds  on  herds  of  'em  ;  whereas  thar's 
good  authority  which  states  that  when  he  makes 
his  bluff  about  not  havin'  no  brand  that  time,  all  the 
cattle  old  Maverick  has  is  a  triflin'  bunch  of  Mexi 
can  steers  an'  no  semblances  of  cows  in  his  outfit. 
From  which  onpromisin',  not  to  say  barren,  begin- 
nin',  Maverick  owns  thousands  of  cattle  at  the  end 
of  ten  years.  It  all  provokes  a  heap  of  merriment 
an*  scorn.  An'  ever  since  that  day,  onmarked  an* 
onbranded  cattle  is  called  '  mavericks.'  But  to  go 
back  ag'in  to  what  Jack  Moore  is  remarkin*  about 
this  yere  outlaw,  Woodruff,  who's  been  bustin'  away 
towards  Jack  with  his  Winchester. 

"  '  It'c  a  week  later,'  goes  on  Jack  Moore,  '  when 
I  encounters  this  sport  Woodruff  in  Howard's  store 
over  in  Tascosa.  I  stands  him  up  an'  asks  whatever 
he's  shootin'  me  up  for  that  day  near  the  Serrita  la 
Cruz. 

" «  "  Which  I  never  sees  you  nohow,"  replies  this 
yere  Woodruff,  laughin'.  "  I  never  cuts  down  on  you 
with  no  Winchester,  for  if  I  did,  I'd  got  you  a  whole 


208  Wolfville  Days. 

lot.  You  bein'  yere  all  petulant  an'  irritated  is 
mighty  good  proof  I  never  is  shootin'  none  at  you. 
But  bein'  you're  new  to  the  Canadian  country  an* 
to  Texas,  let  me  give  you  a  few  p'inters  on  cow  etty- 
quette  an*  range  manners.  Whenever  you  notes  a 
gent  afar  off  with  a  fire  goin'  an'  a  yearlin'  throwed  an' 
hawg-tied  ready  to  mark  up  a  heap  with  his  own  pri 
vate  hieroglyphics,  don't  you-all  go  pesterin*  'round 
him.  He  ain't  good  company,  seen  a  gent  ain't. 
Don't  go  near  him.  It's  ag'in  the  law  in  Texas  to 
brand  calves  lonely  an'  forlorn  that  a-way,  without 
stoppin'  to  herd  'em  over  to  some  well-known  cor 
ral,  an'  the  punishment  it  threatens,  bein'  several 
years  in  Huntsville,  makes  agent  when  he's  violatin' 
it  a  heap  misanthropic,  an'  he  don't  hunger  none 
for  folks  to  come  ridin'  up  to  see  about  what 
ever  he  reckons  he's  at.  Mebby  later  them  visitors 
gets  roped  up  before  a  co't,  or  jury,  to  tell  what 
ever  they  may  know.  So,  as  I  says,  an'  merely 
statin'  a  great  trooth  in  Texas  ettyquette,  yereafter 
on  beholdin'  a  fellow-bein'  with  a  calf  laid  out  to 
mark,  don't  go  near  him  a  little  bit.  It's  manners 
to  turn  your  back  onto  him  an'  ignore  him  plumb 
severe.  He's  a  crim'nal,  an'  any  se'f-respectin'  gent 
is  jestified  in  refoosin'  to  affiliate  with  him.  Where 
fore,  you  ride  away  from  every  outcast  you  tracks 
up  ag'inst  who  is  engaged  like  you  says  this  on- 
known  party  is  the  day  he  fetches  loose  his  Win 
chester  at  you  over  by  the  Serrita  la  Cruz." 

"  *  That's   what  this  Woodruff  says,'  concloodes 
Jack,  windin'   up  his   interruption,  'about  what's 


How  Jack  Rainey  Quit.  209 

manners  in  Texas  ;  an*  when  it's  made  explicit  that 
a-way,  I  sees  the  force  of  his  p'sition.  Woodruff 
an'  me  buys  nose-paint  for  each  other,  shakes 
hearty,  an'  drops  the  discussion.  But  it  shorely 
comes  to  this  :  manners,  as  Texas  declar's,  is  some 
times  born  of  geography,  an'  what  goes  for  polish 
an'  the  p'lite  play  in  St.  Looey  may  not  do  none 
for  Texas.' 

"  *  Mighty  likely,'  says  Old  Man  Enright,  '  what 
Texas  Thompson  an'  Jack  Moore  interjecks  yere  is 
dead  c'rrect ;  but  after  all  this  question  about  what's 
manners  is  'way  to  one  side  of  the  main  trail.  I 
tharfore  su'gests  at  this  crisis  that  Black  Jack  do 
his  best  with  a  bottle,  an'  when  every  gent  has  got 
his  p'ison,  Dave  Tutt  proceeds  for'ard  with  the 
killin'  of  this  Jack  Rainey.' 

"  '  Coin*  on  as  to  said  Rainey,'  observes  Tutt, 
followin'  them  remarks  of  Enright,  *  as  I  explains 
when  Texas  an'  Moore  runs  me  down  with  them 
interestin'  outbreaks,  Rainey  gets  ag'inst  it  over  in 
a  jimcrow  camp  called  Lido  ;  an'  this  yere  is  a  long 
spell  ago. 

fc  *  Rainey  turns  in  an'  charters  every  bar  in  Lido, 
an'  gets  his  brand  onto  all  the  nose-paint.  He's 
out  to  give  the  camp  an  orgy,  an'  not  a  gent  can 
spend  a  splinter  or  lose  a  chip  to  any  bar  for  a  week. 
Them's  Jack  Rainey's  commands.  A  sport  orders 
his  forty  drops,  an'  the  barkeep  pricks  it  onto  a 
tab ;  at  the  end  of  a  week  Jack  Rainey  settles  all 
along  the  line,  an'  the  "  saturnalia,"  as  historians 
calls  'em,  is  over.  I  might  add  that  Jack  Rainey 


210  Wolfvillc  Days. 

gives  way  to  these  yere  charities  once  a  year,  an 
the  camp  of  Lido  is  plumb  used  tharto  an'  approves 
tharof. 

"'On  this  sad  o'casion  when  Jack  Rainey  gets 
killed,  this  yere  excellent  custom  he  invents  is  in 
full  swing.  Thar's  notices  printed  plenty  big,  an' 
posted  up  in  every  drink-shop  from  the  dance  hall 
to  the  Sunflower  saloon ;  which  they  reads  as 
follows : 

RUIN!     RUIN!     RUIN! 

CUT  LOOSE! 

JACK  RAINEY  MAKES  GOOD 
ALL  DRINKS 

FOR 
ONE  WEEK.     NAME  YOUR  POISON! 

"  *  At  this  yere  time,  it's  about  half  through  Jack 
Rainey's  week,  an'  the  pop'lace  of  Lido,  in  conse 
quence,  is  plumb  happy  an'  content.  They're 
holdin'  co't  at  the  time ;  the  same  bein*  the  first 
jestice,  legal,  which  is  dealt  out  in  Lido.' 

"  '  An*  do  you-all  know,'  puts  in  Dan  Boggs,  who's 
listenin'  to  Tutt,  l  I'm  mighty  distrustful  of  co'ts. 
You  go  to  holdin'  of  'em,  an'  it  looks  like  every 
body  gets  wrought  up  to  frenzy  ontil  life  where 
them  forums  is  held  ain't  safe  for  a  second.  I  shall 
shorely  deplore  the  day  when  a  co't  goes  to  openin' 
its  game  in  Wolfville.  It's  " adios"  to  liberty  an' 
peace  an'  safety  from  that  time.' 

"  *  You  can  go  a  yellow  stack,'  remarks  Texas 
Thompson,who  sets  thar  plumb  loquacious  an'  locoed 


How  Jack  Rainey  Quit*  211 

to  get  in  a  speech,  '  that  Boggs  sizes  up  right  about 
them  triboonals.  They're  a  disturbin'  element  in 
any  commoonity.  I  knowed  a  town  in  Texas 
which  is  that  peaceful  it's  pastoral — that's  what  it 
is,  it's  like  a  sheep-fold,  it's  so  meek  an'  easy — 
ontil  one  day  they  ups  an'  plays  a  co't  an'  jedge  an' 
jury  on  that  camp  ;  rings  in  a  herd  of  law  sharps, 
an'  a  passel  of  rangers  with  Winchesters  to  back 
the  deal.  The  town's  that  fretted  tharat  it  gets  full 
of  nose-paint  to  the  brim,  an'  then  hops  into  the 
street  for  gen'ral  practice  with  its  guns.  In  the 
mornin*  the  round-up  shows  two  dead  an'  five 
wounded,  an'  all  for  openin'  co't  on  an  outfit  which 
is  too  frail  to  stand  the  strain  of  so  much  jestice 
onexpected.' 

"  '  As  I'm  engaged  in  remarkin','  says  Tutt,  after 
Boggs  an'  Texas  is  redooced  to  quiet  ag'in — Tutt 
bein'  married  most  likely  is  used  to  interruptions, 
an'  is  shore  patient  that  a-way — '  as  I  states,  they're 
holdin*  co't,  an'  this  day  they  emancipates  from 
prison  a  party  named  Caribou  Sam.  They  tries  to 
prove  this  Caribou  Sam  is  a  hoss-thief,  but  couldn't 
fill  on  the  draw,  an'  so  Caribou  works  free  of  'em 
an'  is  what  they  calls  "  'quitted." 

"  4  As  soon  as  ever  the  marshal  takes  the  hobbles 
off  this  Caribou  Sam — he's  been  held  a  captif  off 
some'ers  an'  is  packed  into  Lido  onder  gyard  to  be 
tried  a  lot — this  yere  malefactor  comes  bulgin'  into 
the  Sunflower  an'  declar's  for  fire-water.  The  bar- 
keep  deals  to  him,  an'  Caribou  Sam  is  assuaged. 

"'  When  he  goes  to  pay,  a  gent  who's  standin' 


212  Wolfville  Days* 

near  shoves  back  his  dust,  an'  says :  "  This  is  Jack 
Rainey's  week — it's  the  great  annyooal  festival  of 
Jack  Rainey,  an'  your  money's  no  good." 

"'  "  But  I  aims  to  drink  some  more/0£<?  tiempo" 
says  this  Caribou  Sam,  who  is  new  to  Lido,  an* 
never  yet  hears  of  Jack  Rainey  an'  his  little  game, 
"  an*  before  I  permits  a  gent  to  subsidize  my  thirst, 
an*  go  stackin'  in  for  my  base  appetites,  you  can 
gamble  I  want  to  meet  him  an*  make  his  acquaint 
ance.  Where  is  this  yere  sport  Jack  Rainey,  an' 
whatever  is  he  doin'  this  on  ?  " 

"  '  The  party  who  shoves  Caribou's  diner o  off  the 
bar,  tells  him  he  can't  pay,  an'  explains  the  play,  an* 
exhorts  him  to  drink  free  an'  frequent  an'  keep  his 
chips  in  his  war-bags. 

"'"As  I  tells  you,"  says  this  party  to  Caribou, 
"  my  friend  Jack  Rainey  has  treed  the  camp,  an'  no 
money  goes  yere  but  his  till  his  further  com 
mands  is  known.  Fill  your  hide,  but  don't  flourish 
no  funds,  or  go  enlargin'  on  any  weakness  you  has 
for  buyin'  your  own  licker.  As  for  seein'  Jack 
Rainey,  it's  plumb  impossible.  He's  got  too  full  to 
visit  folks  or  be  visited  by  'em  ;  but  he's  upsta'rs  on 
some  blankets,  an'  if  his  reason  is  restored  by  to- 
morry,  you  sends  up  your  kyard  an*  pays  him  your 
regyards — pendin'  of  which  social  function,  take  an 
other  drink.  Barkeep,  pump  another  dose  into  this 
stranger,  an'  charge  the  same  to  Jack." 

"  * "  This  yere  sounds  good,"  says  Caribou  Sam, 
u  but  it  don't  win  over  me.  Ontil  I  sees  this  per, 
son  Rainey,  I  shall  shorely  decline  all  bottles  which 


How  Jack  Rainey  Quit.  213 

is  presented  in  his  name.  I've  had  a  close  call 
about  a  bronco  I  stole  to-day,  an'  when  the  jury 
makes  a  verdict  that  they're  sorry  to  say  the  evi 
dence  ain't  enough  to  convict,  the  jedge  warns  me 
to  be  a  heap  careful  of  the  company  I  maintains. 
He  exhorts  me  to  live  down  my  past,  or  failin'  which 
he'll  hang  me  yet.  With  this  bluff  from  the  bench 
ringin'  in  my  y'ears,  I  shall  refoose  drinks  with  all 
onknown  sots,  ontil  I  sees  for  myse'f  they's  proper 
characters  for  me  to  be  sociable  with.  Tharfore, 
barkeep,  I  renoo  my  determination  to  pay  for  them 
drinks ;  at  the  same  time,  I  orders  another  round. 
Do  you  turn  for  me  or  no?  " 

"  '  "  Not  none  you  don't,"  says  the  friend  of  Jack 
Rainey.  "  You  can  drink,  but  you  can't  pay — 
leastwise,  you-all  can't  pay  without  gettin*  all  sort 
o*  action  on  your  money.  This  Rainey  you're  wor 
ried  about  is  as  good  a  gent  as  me,  an'  not  at  all 
likely  to  shake  the  standin'  of  a  common  hoss-thief 
by  merely  buyin'  his  nose-paint." 

"  *  "  Mine  is  shorely  a  difficult  p'sition,"  says  Cari 
bou  Sam.  "  What  you  imparts  is  scarce  encour- 
agin.'  If  this  yere  Rainey  ain't  no  improvement 
onto  you,  I  absolootely  weakens  on  him  an'  turns 
aside  from  all  relations  of  his  proposin'.  I'm  in 
mighty  bad  report  as  the  game  stands,  an'  I  thar- 
fore  insists  ag'in  on  payin'  for  my  own  war  medi 
cine,  as  bein'  a  move  necessary  to  protect  my 
attitoodes  before  the  public." 

" '  With  these  yere  observations,  Caribou  Sam 
makes  a  bluff  at  the  barkeep  with  a  handful  of 


214  Wolfville  Days. 

money.  In  remonstrating  Jack  Rainey's  pard 
nacherally  pulls  a  gun,  as  likewise  does  Caribou 
Sam.  Thar's  the  customary  quantity  of  shoot  in', 
an'  while  neither  Caribou  nor  his  foe  gets  drilled,  a 
bullet  goes  through  the  ceilin'  an'  sort  o'  sa'nters  in 
a  careless,  indifferent  way  into  pore  Jack  Rainey, 
where  he's  bedded  down  an*  snorin'  up  above. 

" '  Shore,  he's  dead,  Rainey  is,'  concloodes  Dave, 
*  an'  his  ontimely  takin'  off  makes  Lido  quit  loser 
for  three  days  of  licker  free  as  air.  He's  a  splendid, 
gen'rous  soul,  Jack  Rainey  is;  an'  as  I  says  at  the 
beginning  he  falls  a  sacrifice  to  his  love  for  others, 
an'  in  tryin*  at  his  own  expense  to  promote  the  hap 
piness  an'  lift  them  burdens  of  his  fellow-men.' 

"  *  This  yere  miscreant,  Caribou,'  says  Texas 
Thompson,  *  is  a  mighty  sight  too  punctilious  about 
them  drinks;  which  thar's  no  doubt  of  it.  Do 
they  lynch  him  ?  ' 

"  '  No,'  saysTutt;  'from  the  calibre  of  the  gun 
which  fires  the  lead  that  snatches  Rainey  from  us, 
it  is  cl'ar  that  it's  the  gent  who's  contendin'  with 
Caribou  who  does  it.  Still  public  opinion  is  some 
sour  over  losin'  them  three  days,  an*  so  Caribou 
goes  lopin'  out  of  Lido  surreptitious  that  same 
evenin',  an'  don't  wait  none  on  Rainey's  obsequies- 
Caribou  merely  sends  regrets  by  the  barkeep  of  the 
Sunflower,  reiterates  the  right  to  pay  for  them 
drinks*  an'  Lido  sees  him  no  more.' " 


CHAPTER  XV. 
The  Defiance  of  Gene  Watkins. 

"  BE  I  religious  that  a-way  ?  "  More  to  embark 
him  on  some  current  of  conversation  than  from  any 
gnawing  eagerness  to  discover  his  creed,  I  had 
aimed  the  question  at  my  Old  Cattleman. 

"  No,"  he  continued,  declining  a  proffered  cigar, 
"  I'll  smoke  my  old  pipe  to-night.  Be  I  religious? 
says  you.  Well,  I  ain't  shorely  livin'  in  what  you'd 
call  *  grace/  still  I  has  my  beliefs.  Back  in  Ten 
nessee  my  folks  is  Methodis',  held  to  sprinklin'  an* 
sech ;  however,  for  myse'f,  I  never  banks  none  on 
them  technicalities.  It's  deeds  that  counts  with 
Omnipotence,  same  as  with  a  vig'lance  committee  ; 
an',  whether  a  gent  is  sprinkled  or  dipped  or  is  as 
averse  to  water  as  Huggins  or  Old  Monte,  wont 
settle  whether  he  wins  out  a  harp  or  a  hot  pitchfork 
in  the  eternal  beyond. 

"  No,  I  ain't  a  believer  in  that  enthoosiastic  sense 
that  fights  its  way  to  the  mourner's  bench  an'  man 
ifests  itse'f  with  groans  that  daunts  hoot-owls  into 
silence.  Thar  don't  appear  many  preachers  out 
West  in  my  day.  Now  an'  then  one  of  these  yere 
divines,  who's  got  strayed  or  drifted  from  his 
proper  range,  comes  buttin'  his  way  into  Wolfville 
an'  puts  us  up  a  sermon,  or  a  talkee-talkee.  In  sech 


2i6  "Wolfville  Days* 

events  we  allers  listens  respectful,  an'  when  the 
contreebution  box  shows  down,  we  stakes  'em  on 
their  windin'  way ;  but  it's  all  as  much  for  the 
name  of  the  camp  as  any  belief  in  them  ministra 
tions  doin'  local  good.  Shore !  these  yere  sky- 
scouts  is  all  right  at  that.  But  Wolfville's  a  hard, 
practical  outfit,  what  you  might  call  a  heap  obdur 
ate,  an'  it's  goin'  to  take  more  than  them  fitful  an* 
o'casional  sermons  I  alloodes  to,  a  hour  long  an' 
more'n  three  months  apart  on  a  av'rage,  to  reach 
the  roots  of  its  soul.  When  I  looks  back  on  Peets 
an'  Enright,  an'  Boggs  an*  Tutt,  an'  Texas  Thomp 
son  an'  Moore,  an'  Cherokee,  to  say  nothin'  of 
Colonel  Sterett,  an'  recalls  their  nacheral  obstinacy, 
an*  the  cheerful  conceit  wherewith  they  adheres  to 
their  systems  of  existence,  I  realizes  that  them  or 
dinary,  every-day  pulpit  utterances  of  the  sort  that 
saves  an'  satisfies  the  East,  would  have  about  as 
much  ser'ous  effect  on  them  cimmaron  pards  of 
mine  as  throwin'  water  on  a  drowned  rat.  Which 
they  lives  irreg'lar,  an'  they're  doo  to  die  irreg'lar, 
an'  if  they  can't  be  admitted  to  the  promised  land 
irreg'lar,  they're  shore  destined  to  pitch  camp  out 
side.  An'  inasmuch  as  I  onderstands  them  afore 
time  comrades  of  mine,  an'  saveys  an'  esteems  their 
ways,  why,  I  reckons  I'll  string  my  game  with 
theirs  a  whole  lot,  an*  get  in  or  get  barred  with 
Wolfville. 

"  No ;  I've  no  notion  at  all  ag'inst  a  gospel 
spreader.  When  Short  Creek  Dave  gets  religion 
over  in  Tucson,  an'  descends  on  us  as  a  exhorter, 


The  Defiance  of  Gene  Watkins.  217 

although  I  only  knows  Short  Creek  thartofore  as 
the  coldest  poker  sharp  that  ever  catches  a  gent 
bl tiffin*  on  a  4-flush,  I  hesitates  not,  but  encourages 
an'  caps  his  game.  But  I  can't  say  that  the  sight 
of  a  preacher-gent  affords  me  peace.  A  preacher 
frets  me  ;  not  for  himse'f  exactly,  but  you  never 
sees  preachers  without  seein'  p'lice  folks — preachers 
an*  p'lice  go  hand  in  hand,  like  prairie  dogs  an* 
rattlesnakes — an'  born  as  I  be  in  Tennessee,  where 
we  has  our  feuds  an'  where  law  is  a  interference  an' 
never  a  protection,  I'm  nacherally  loathin'  con 
stables  complete. 

"But  if  I  ain't  religious,"  he  rambled  on  while 
he  puffed  at  his  Bull  Durham  vigorously,  "you  can 
resk  a  small  stack  that  neither  I  ain't  sooperstitious. 
Take  Boggs  an'  Cherokee,  you-all  recalls  how  long 
ago  I  tells  you  how  sooperstitious  them  two  is. 
Speakin'  of  Boggs,  who's  as  good  a  gent  an'  as 
troo  a  friend  as  ever  touches  your  glass;  he's 
sooperstitious  from  his  wrought-steel  spurs  to  his 
bullion  hatband.  Boggs  has  more  signs  an'  omens 
than  some  folks  has  money ;  everything  is  a  tip 
or  a  hunch  to  Boggs  ;  an'  he  lives  surrounded  by 
inflooences. 

"Thar's  a  peaked  old  sport  named  Ryder  per- 
vades  Wolfville  for  a  while.  He's  surly  an'  gnurlly 
an*  omeny,  Ryder  is ;  an'  has  one  of  them  awful 
lookin*  faces  where  the  feachers  is  all  c'llected  in 
the  middle  of  his  visage,  an'  bunched  up  like  they's 
afraid  of  Injuns  or  somethin*  else  that  threatenin' 
an'  hostile — them  sort  of  countenances  you  notes 


2i8  Wolfville  Days. 

carved  on  the  far  ends  of  fiddles.  We-all  is  averse 
to  Ryder.  An'  this  yere  Ryder  himse'f  is  that  con 
tentious  an'  contradictory  he  won't  agree  to  noth- 
in'.  Jest  to  show  you  about  Ryder :  I  has  in 
mind  once  when  a  passel  of  us  is  lookin'  at  a  paper 
that's  come  floatin'  in  from  the  States.  Thar's  the 
picture  of  a  cow-puncher  into  it  who's  a  dead  ringer 
for  Dave  Tutt.  From  y'ears  to  hocks  that  picture 
is  Tutt ;  an'  thar  we-all  be  admirin*  the  likeness  an* 
takin*  our  licker  conjunctive.  While  thus  spec'- 
latin'  on  them  resemblances,  this  yere  sour  old  mav 
erick,  Ryder,  shows  up  at  the  bar  for  nourishment. 

"  '  Don't  tell  Ryder  about  how  this  yere  deeline- 
ation  looks  like  Tutt,'  says  Doc  Peets ;  '  I'll  saw  it 
off  on  him  raw  for  his  views,  and  ask  him  whatever 
does  he  think  himse'f. 

"  *  See  yere,  Ryder/  says  Peets,  shovin*  the 
paper  onder  the  old  t'rant'ler's  nose  as  he  sets  down 
his  glass,  '  whoever  does  this  picture  put  you  in 
mind  of?  Does  it  look  like  any  sport  you  knows  ?  ' 

"  '  No,'  says  Ryder,  takin'  the  paper  an'  puttin' 
on  his  specks,  an'  at  the  same  time  as  thankless  after 
his  nose-paint  as  if  he'd  been  refoosed  the  bever 
age  ;  '  no,  it  don't  put  me  in  mind  of  nothin'  nor 
nobody.  One  thing  shore,  an'  you-all  hold-ups 
can  rope  onto  that  for  a  fact,  it  don't  remind  me 
none  of  Dave  Tutt.' 

"  Which  Boggs,  who,  as  I  says,  is  allers  herdin* 
ghosts,  is  sooperstitious  about  old  Ryder.  That's 
straight ;  Boggs  won't  put  down  a  bet  while  this  Ry 
der  person's  in  sight.  I've  beheld  Boggs,  jest  as  he's 


The  Defiance  of  Gene  Watkins.  219 

got  his  chips  placed,  look  up  an'  c'llect  a  glimpse 
of  them  fiddle-feachers  of  Ryder. 

"  '  Whoop  !  '  says  Boggs  to  Cherokee,  who  would 
be  behind  the  box,  an*  spreadin'  his  hands  in  ree- 
monstrance  ;  '  nothin'  goes ! '  An'  then  Boggs 
would  glare  at  this  Ryder  party  ontil  he'd  fade 
from  the  room. 

"  He's  timid  of  Boggs,  too,  this  yere  Ryder  is ; 
an'  as  much  as  ever  it's  this  horror  of  Boggs  which 
prevails  on  him  to  shift  his  blankets  to  Red  Dog — 
the  same  bein'  a  low-down  plaza  inhabited  by 
drunkards  an'  Mexicans,  in  proportions  about  a 
even  break  of  each,  an'  which  assoomes  in  its  delir 
ium  treemors  way  to  be  a  rival  of  Wolfville. 

"  *  Which  I'm  a  public  benefactor,'  says  Boggs, 
when  he's  informed  that  he's  done  froze  this  Ryder 
out  of  camp,  *  an'  if  you  sports  a'preciates  me  at 
my  troo  valyoo,  you-all  would  proffer  me  some  sech 
memento  mebby  as  a  silver  tea-set.  Me  makin' 
this  Ryder  vamos  is  the  greatest  public  improve 
ment  Wolfville's  experienced  since  the  lynchin'  of 
B'ar  Creek  Stanton.  You-all  ain't  s'fficiently  on 
the  quee  vee,  as  they  says  in  French,  to  be  aware 
of  the  m'lignant  atmospheres  of  this  yere  Ryder. 
He'd  hoodoo  a  hill,  or  a  pine-tree,  Ryder  would, 
let  alone  anythin'  as  onstable  as  my  methods  of 
buckin'  faro-bank.  Gone  to  Red  Dog,  has  he? 
Bueno  !  He  leaves  us  an'  attaches  himse'f  to  our 
enemies.  I'll  bet  a  pinto  hoss  that  somethin' 
happens  to  them  Red  Dog  tarrapins  inside  of  a 
week.' 


220  "Wolfvilk  Days. 

"  An',  son,  while  said  riotous  prophecies  of  Boggs 
don't  impress  me  a  little  bit,  I'm  bound  to  admit 
that  the  second  night  followin'  the  heegira  of  this 
yere  Ryder,  an'  his  advent  that  a-way  into  Red 
Dog,  a  outcast  from  the  Floridas,  who  goes  locoed 
as  the  frootes  of  a  week  of  Red  Dog  gayety,  sets 
fire  to  the  sityooation  while  shootin*  out  the  dance- 
hall  lamps,  an'  burns  up  half  Red  Dog,  with  the 
dance  hall  an'  the  only  two  s'loons  in  the  outfit  ; 
tharby  incloodin*  every  drop  of  whiskey  in  the 
holycaust.  It  was  awful !  Which,  of  course,  we 
comes  to  the  rescoo.  Red  Dog's  our  foe ;  but  thar 
be  c'lamities,  son,  which  leaves  no  room  in  the  hoo- 
man  heart  for  anythin'  but  pity.  An'  thu  is  one. 
Wolfville  rolls  out  the  needed  nose-paint  for  Red 
Dog,  desolated  as  I  says,  an'  holds  the  fraternal 
glass  to  the  Red  Dog  lips  till  its  freighters  brings 
relief  from  Tucson. 

"  All  the  same,  while  as  I  assures  you  thar's  nothin* 
sooperstitious  about  me,  I  can't  he'p,  when  Red  Dog 
burns  that  a-way,  but  think  of  them  bluffs  of  Boggs 
about  this  yere  old  Ryder  party  bein'  a  hoodoo. 
Shore  !  it  confirms  Boggs  in  them  weaknesses.  An' 
he  even  waxes  puffed  up  an'  puts  on  dog  about  it ; 
an'  if  ever  thar's  a  dispoote  about  one  of  his  omens 
— an*  thar's  a  lot  from  time  to  time,  because  Boggs 
is  plumb  reedic'lous  as  to  'em — he  ups  an'  staggers 
the  camp  by  demandin',  '  Don't  I  call  the  turn  that 
time  when  Ryder  goes  retreatin'  over  to  Red  Dog  ? 
If  I  don't,  I'll  turn  Chink  an'  open  a  laundry.' 

"  Speakin'  of  omens,  of  course  thar  be  some,  as 


The  Defiance  of  Gene  Watkms.  221 

I  tell  you  yeretofore  in  that  Wolfville  book  you've 
done  printed,  so  common  an'  practical  every  gent 
must  yield  to  'em.  Thar's  places  where  mere  sooper- 
stition  gets  up  from  the  table,  an'  mule-sense  takes  its 
seat.  If  I  meets  a  gentevolvin'  outcries  of  glee,  an' 
walkin'  on  both  sides  of  the  street,  an'  most  likely 
emptyin'  a  Colt's  pistol  at  the  firmament,  an'  all 
without  obv'ous  cause,  I  dedooces  the  presence  in 
that  gent's  interior  of  a  lib'ral  freight  of  nose-paint. 
If,  as  I'm  proceedin'  about  my  destinies,  I  hears  the 
voice  of  a  gun,  I  argues  the  existence  of  aweepon  in 
my  vicinity.  If  the  lead  tharfrom  cuts  my  saddle- 
horn,  or  creases  my  pony,  or  plugs  a  double  hole  in 
my  sombrero,  or  some  sech  little  play,  I  flies  to  a 
theery  that  the  knight  errant  who's  back  of  the  racket 
means  me,  onlimbers  my  field  piece,  an*  enters  into 
the  sperit  of  the  eepisode.  Which  I  gives  you  this 
in  almost  them  very  words  before.  Still,  signs  an' 
omens  in  what  Doc  Peets  would  term  their  'occult 
isms,'  I  passes  up.  I  wouldn't  live  in  them  ap 
prehensions  that  beleaguers  Boggs  for  a  full  herd  of 
three-year-olds. 

"  Which  I'll  never  forget  them  eloocidations 
Enright  enfolds  on  Boggs  one  evenin'  about  the 
mournin'  an'  the  howlin'  of  some  hound-dogs  that's 
been  sendin'  thrills  through  Boggs.  It's  when 
some  outfit  of  mountebanks  is  givin'  a  show  called 
'  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin,'  over  to  Huggins'  Bird  Cage 
Op'ry  House,  an'  these  yere  saddenin*  canines — big, 
lop-y'eared  hound-dogs,  they  be — works  in  the 
piece. 


222  Wolfville  Days* 

" '  Do  you-all  hear  them  hound-dogs  a-mournin* 
an*  a-bayin'  last  evenin'  ?  '  asked  Boggs  of  Enright 

"  '  Shore  !  I  hears  'em,'  says  Enright. 

"  Enright,  that  a-way,  is  allers  combatin'  of  Boggs' 
sooperstitions.  As  he  says,  if  somebody  don't  head 
Boggs  off,  them  deloosions  spreads,  an'  the  first 
news  you  gets,  Wolfville's  holdin*  table-tippin's  an' 
is  goin'  all  spraddled  out  on  seances  an'  sim'lar 
imbecilities,  same  as  them  sperit-rappin'  hold-ups 
one  encounters  in  the  East.  In  sech  event,  Red 
Dog's  doo  to  deem  us  locoed,  an'  could  treat  us  with 
jestified  disdain.  Enright  don't  aim  to  allow  Wolf 
ville's  good  repoote  to  bog  down  to  any  sech  extent, 
none  whatever ;  an'  so  stands  in  to  protect  both 
the  camp  an'  pore  Boggs  himse'f  from  Boggs'  weird 
an'  ranikaboo  idees.  So  Enright  says  ag'in  : '  Shore  ! 
I  hears  'em.  An*  what  of  it  ?  Can't  you-all  let  a 
pore  pup  howl,  when  his  heart  is  low  an'  his  desti 
nies  most  likely  has  got  tangled  in  their  rope? ' 

"  'Jest  the  same,'  says  Boggs,  *  them  outcries  of 
theirs  makes  me  feel  a  heap  ambiguous.  I'm  drawin* 
kyards  to  a  pa'r  of  fours  that  first  howl  they  emits, 
an*  I  smells  bad  luck  an'  thinks  to  myse'f,  "  Here's 
where  you  get  killed  too  dead  to  skin  !  "  But  as  I 
takes  in  three  aces,  an'  as  the  harvest  tharof  is 
crowdin'  hard  towards  two  hundred  dollars,  I  con- 
cloodes,  final,  them  dogs  don't  have  me  on  their 
mind  after  all ;  an'  so  I'm  appeased  a  whole  lot. 
Still,  I'm  cur'ous  to  know  whatever  they're  howlin* 
about  anyhow.' 

"  '  Which  you're  too  conceited,  Boggs,'  says  Tuttt 


The  Defiance  of  Gene  Watkins.  223 

cuttin'  in  on  the  powwow.  *  You-all  is  allers 
thinkin'  everythin'  means  you.  Now,  I  hears  them 
dogs  howlin',  an'  havin'  beheld  the  spectacle  they 
performs  in,  I  sort  o'  allows  they're  sorrowin'  over 
their  disgraceful  employment — sort  o'  'shamed  of 
their  game.  An'  well  them  dogs  might  be  bowed 
in  sperit !  for  a  more  mendacious  an'  lyin'  meelo- 
dramy  than  said  "  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin,"  I  never  yet 
pays  four  white  chips  to  see  ;  an'  I'm  from  Illinoy, 
an'  was  a  Abe  Lincoln  man  an*  a  rank  black  ab'li- 
tionist  besides.' 

"  *  Seein'  I  once  owns  a  couple  of  hundred  Gui 
neas,'  says  Enright,  '  my  feelin's  ag'in  slavery  never 
mounts  so  high  as  Tutt's  ;  but  as  for  eloocidatin* 
them  dog-songs  that's  set  your  nerves  to  rnillin', 
Boggs,  it's  easy.  Whenever  you-all  hears  a  dog 
mournin'  an'  howlin'  like  them  hound-pups  does  last 
night,  that's  because  he  smells  somethin'  he  can't 
locate ;  an'  nacherally  he's  agitated  tharby.  Now 
yereafter,  never  let  your  imagination  pull  its  picket- 
pin  that  a-way,  an'  go  to  cavortin'  'round  permiscus — • 
don't  go  romancin'  off  on  any  of  them  ghost  round 
ups  you're  addicted  to.  Thar's  the  whole  groosome 
myst'ry  laid  b'ar ;  them  pups  merely  smells  things 
they  can't  locate,  an'  it  frets  'em.' 

"  '  None  the  less,'  remarks  Cherokee  Hall,  'while  I 
reckons  Enright  gives  us  the  c'rrect  line  on  dogs  that 
gets  audible  that  a-way,  an'  onravels  them  howls  in 
all  their  meanin's,  I  confesses  I'm  a  heap  like  Boggs 
about  signs.  Mebby,  as  I  says  prior,  it's  because 
I'm  a  kyard  sharp  an'  allers  faces  my  footure  over  a 


224  Wolfville  Days, 

faro  layout.  Anyhow,  signs  an'  omens  presses  on  me. 
For  one  thing,  I'm  sooperstitious  about  makin'  of 
onyoosal  arrangements  to  protect  my  play.  I  never 
yet  tries  to  cinch  a  play,  an'  never  notes  anybody 
else  try,  but  we-all  quits  loser.  It  ain't  no  use. 
Every  gent,  from  his  cradle  to  his  coffin,  has  got  to 
take  a  gambler's  chance.  Life  is  like  stud-poker ; 
an'  Destiny's  got  an  ace  buried  every  time.  It  either 
out-lucks  you  or  out-plays  you  whenever  it's  so  in 
clined  ;  an'  it  seems  allers  so  inclined,  Destiny  does, 
jest  as  you're  flatterin'  yourse'f  you've  got  a  shore 
thing.  A  gent's  bound  to  play  fa'r  with  Destiny  ; 
he  can  put  a  bet  down  on  that.  You  can't  hold  six 
kyards;  you  can't  deal  double;  you  can't  play  no 
cold  hands ;  you  can't  bluff  Destiny.  All  you-all 
can  do  is  humbly  an'  meekly  pick  up  the  five  kyards 
that  belongs  to  you,  an'  in  a  sperit  of  thankfulness 
an'  praise,  an' frankly  admittin'  that  you're  lucky  to 
be  allowed  to  play  at  all,  do  your  lowly  best  tharwith. 
Ain't  I  right,  Doc?'  An'  Cherokee,  lookin'  warm 
an*  earnest,  turns  to  Peets. 

"  '  As  absolootely  right  as  the  sights  of  a  Sharp's 
rifle,'  says  Peets  ;  '  an',  while  I'm  not  yereto  render 
you  giddy  with  encomiums,  Cherokee,  you  shore 
ought  to  expand  them  sentiments  into  a  lecture.' 

"  '  Jest  to  'llustrate  my  meaning*  resooms  Chero 
kee,  *  let  me  onbosom  myse'f  as  to  what  happens  a 
party  back  in  Posey  County,  Injeanny.  I'm  plumb 
callow  at  the  time,  bein'  only  about  the  size  an' 
valyoo  of  a  pa'r  of  fives,  but  I'm  plenty  impressed 
by  them  events  I'm  about  to  recount,  an'  the 


The  Defiance  of  Gene  Watkins*  225 

mem'ry  is  fresh  enough  for  yesterday.  But  to 
come  fiutterin'  from  my  perch.  Thar's  a  sport 
who  makes  his  home-camp  in  that  hamlet  which 
fosters  my  infancy ;  that  is,  he's  thar  about  six 
months  in  the  year.  His  long  suit  is  playin'  the 
ponies — he  can  beat  the  races ;  an'  where  he  falls 
down  is  faro-bank,  which  never  fails  to  freeze  to  all 
the  coin  he  changes  in.  That's  the  palin'  off  his 
fence ;  faro-bank.  He  never  does  triumph  at  it 
onct.  An'  still  the  device  has  him  locoed  ;  he  can't 
let  it  alone.  Jest  so  shorely  as  he  finds  a  faro-bank, 
jest  so  shorely  he  sets  in  ag'inst  it,  an'  jest  so 
shorely  he  ain't  got  a  tail-feather  left  when  he  quits. 
"  'The  races  is  over  for  the  season.  It's  the  first 
snow  of  winter  on  the  ground,  when  our  sport 
comes  trailin'  in  to  make  hisannyooal  camp.  He's 
about  six  thousand  dollars  strong  ;  for,  as  I  states, 
he  picks  hosses  right.  An'  he's  been  thinkin',  too  ; 
this  yere  sport  I'm  relatin'  of.  He's  been  roomina- 
tin'  the  baleful  effects  of  faro-bank  in  his  speshul 
case.  He  knows  it's  no  use  him  sayin'  he  wont  buck 
the  game.  This  person's  made  them  vows  before. 
An'  they  holds  him  about  like  cobwebs  holds  a  cow 
— lasts  about  as  long  as  a  drink  of  whiskey.  He's 
bound,  in  the  very  irreg'larities  of  his  nacher,  an* 
the  deadly  idleness  of  a  winter  with  nothin'  to  do 
but  think,  to  go  to  transactin'  faro-bank.  An',  as  a 
high-steppin*  patriot  once  says,  "  jedgin'  of  the 
footure  by  the  past,"  our  sport's  goin'  to  be  skinned 
alive — chewed  up — compared  to  him  a  Digger  Injun 
will  loom  up  in  the  matter  of  finance  like  a  Steve 


226  Wolfville  Days. 

Girard.  An'  he  knows  it.  Wherefore  this  yere 
crafty  sharp  starts  in  to  cinch  a  play ;  starts  in  to 
defy  fate,  an'  rope  up  an'  brand  the  footure,  for  at 
least  six  months  to  come.  An',  jest  as  I  argues, 
Destiny  accepts  the  challenge  of  this  vainglorious 
sharp  ;  acccepts  it  with  a  grin.  Yere's  what  he 
does,  an'  yere's  what  comes  to  pass. 

"  '  Our  wise,  forethoughtful  sport  seeks  out  the 
robber  who  keeps  the  tavern.  "  The  ponies  will  be 
back  in  May,"  says  he,  "  an'  I'm  perishin'  of 
cur'osity  to  know  how  much  money  you  demands 
to  feed  an'  sleep  me  till  then."  The  tavern  man 
names  the  bundle,  an'  the  thoughtful  sport  makes 
good.  Then  he  stiffens  the  barkeep  for  about  ten 
drinks  a  day  ontil  the  advent  of  them  ponies.  Fol- 
lowin'  which,  he  searches  out  a  tailor  shop  an' 
accoomulates  a  lib'ral  trousseau,  an*  has  it  packed 
down  to  the  tavern  an'  filed  away  in  his  rooms. 
"Thar!"  he  says;  "which  I  reckons  now  I'm 
strong  enough  to  go  the  distance.  Not  even  a 
brace  game  of  faro-bank,  nor  yet  any  sim'lar  dead 
fall,  prevails  ag'inst  me.  I  flatters  myse'f,  for  onct 
in  a  way,  I've  organized  my  destinies  so  that,  for 
six  months  at  least,  they've  done  got  to  run  troo." 

"  '  It's  after  supper  ;  our  sport,  who's  been  so 
busy  all  day  treein'  the  chances  an'  runnin'  of  'em 
out  on  a  limb,  is  loafin'  about  the  bar.  O'casion- 
ally  he  congratulates  himse'f  on  havin'  a  long  head 
like  a  mule  ;  then  ag'in  he  oneasily  reverts  to  the 
faro  game  that's  tossin'  an'  heavin'  with  all  sorts  o' 
good  an'  bad  luck  jest  across  the  street. 


The  Defiance  of  Gene  Watkms.  227 

"4  At  first  he's  plumb  inflex'ble  that  a-way,  an*  is 
goin'  to  deny  himse'f  to  faro-bank.  He  waxes  quite 
heroic  about  it,  our  sport  does ;  a  condition  of 
sperits,  by  the  way,  I've  allers  noticed  is  prone  to 
immejetly  precede  complete  c'llapse. 

"  *  These  yere  reform  thoughts  of  our  sport  con- 
soomes  a  hour.  About  that  time,  however,  he 
engages  himse'f  with  the  fifth  drink  of  nose-paint. 
Tharupon  faro-bank  takes  on  a  different  tint.  His 
attitoode  towards  that  amoosement  becomes  en 
larged  ;  at  least  he  decides  he'll  prance  over  some 
an'  take  a  fall  out  of  it  for,  say,  a  hundred  or  so 
either  way,  merely  to  see  if  his  luck's  as  black  as 
former.  An'  over  capers  our  sport. 

"  *  It's  the  same  old  song  by  the  same  old  mock- 
in'-bird.  At  second  drink  time  followin'  midnight 
our  sport  is  broke.  As  he  gets  up  an'  stretches 
'round  a  whole  lot  in  a  half-disgusted  way,  he  still 
can't  he'p  exultin'  on  how  plumb  cunnin'  he's 
been.  "  I  don't  say  this  in  any  sperit  of  derision," 
he  remarks  to  the  dealer  he's  been  settin'  opp'site  to 
for  eight  hours,  an'  who  manoovers  his  fiscal  over 
throw,  as  aforesaid,  "  an'  shorely  with  no  intent 
to  mortify  a  wolf  like  you-all,  who's  as  remorseless 
as  he's  game,  but  I  foresees  this  racket  an'  insures 
for  its  defeat.  You  figgers  you've  downed  me. 
Mebbyso.  All  the  same,  I've  got  my  game  staked 
out  so  that  I  eats,  drinks,  sleeps,  an'  wears  clothes 
till  the  comin'  of  them  ponies ;  an'  you,  an*  the 
angels  above,  an'  the  demons  down  onder  the  sea, 
is  powerless  to  put  a  crimp  in  them  calc'lations. 


228  Wolfville  Days. 

I've  got  the  next  six  months  pris'ner ;  I've  turned 
the  keys  onto  'em  same  as  if  they're  in  a  calaboose. 
An'  no  power  can  rescoo  'em  none  ;  an'  they  can't 
break  jail." 

"  l  An'  jest  to  show  you-all,'  continyoos  Cherokee, 
after  pausin'  to  tip  the  bottle  for  a  spoonful,  as  well 
as  let  the  sityooation  sort  o'  trickle  into  us  in  all  its 
outlines — Cherokee  is  plenty  graphic  that  a-way, 
an'  knows  how  to  frame  up  them  recitals  so  they 
takes  effect — '  an'  jest  to  show  you,  as  I  remarks 
former,  that  eyery  gent  is  bound  to  take  a  gamb 
ler's  chance  an'  that  shore-things  don't  exist,  let  me 
ask  you  what  happens?  Our  confident  sport  ain't 
hardly  got  that  bluff  hung  up  before — "  Inglego- 
jang!  inglegojang  !  "  goes  the  church  bell  in  alarm  ; 
the  tavern's  took  fire  an'  burns  plumb  to  the 
ground ;  drinks,  chuck,  bed,  raiment,  the  whole 
bunch  of  tricks ;  an'  thar's  our  wise  sport  out  in 
the  snow  an'  nothin'  but  a  black  ruck  of  smokin' 
ruins  to  remind  him  of  that  cinch  of  his. 

"  '  It's  a  lesson  to  him,  though.  As  he  stands 
thar  meditatin'  on  the  expectedness  of  the  onex- 
pected,  he  observes  to  himse'f,  "  Providence,  if  so 
minded,  can  beat  a  royal  flush  ;  an'  any  gent  holdin' 
contrary  views  is  a  liar,  amen  !  " 

"  '  Good,  Cherokee  ! '  says  Texas  Thompson,  as 
Cherokee  comes  to  a  halt ;  '  I'm  yere  to  observe 
you're  a  mighty  excellent  racontoor.  Yere's  look- 
in'  at  you  ! '  an'  Thompson  raises  his  glass. 

"  '  I  catches  your  eye,'  says  Cherokee,  a  heap 
pleased,  as  he  p'litely  caroms  his  glass  ag'in  Thomp 
son's. 


The  Defiance  of  Gene  Watkins,  229 

"  '  But  Cherokee/  whispers  Faro  Nell,  from  where 
she's  clost  by  his  side,  *  if  thar's  somethin'  I  de 
sires  a  whole  lot,  an'  is  doin'  my  level  best  to  de 
serve  an'  keep  it  all  my  life,  do  you-all  reckon  now 
that  Providence  ups  an*  throws  me  down  ? ' 

"  '  Not  you,  Nell,'  says  Cherokee,  as  he  smiles 
on  Faro  Nell,  an'  kind  o'  surreptitious  pats  her 
ha'r  ;  *  not  you.  Providence  guides  your  game  an' 
guarantees  it.  I'm  only  discussin'  of  men.  It's 
one  of  the  best  things  about  both  Providence  an' 
woman,  an'  to  the  credit  of  all  concerned,  that  they 
allers  agrees — allers  goes  hand  in  hand.' 

" '  An'  that  last  utterance  is  a  fact,'  observes 
Dave  Tutt,  who's  been  interested  deep.  *  When  I 
first  weds  Tucson  Jennie  that  time,  I  doubts  them 
tenets.  That's  over  a  year  ago,  an'  you  bet  I'm 
settin'  yere  to-day  in  possession  of  a  new  faith.  It 
takes  time  to  teach  me,  but  I  now  sees  that  Tucson 
Jennie's  the  onfalterin'  mouth-piece  of  eternal 
trooth  ;  the  full  partner  of  Providence,  a-holdin' 
down  the  post  of  lookout ;  an'  that  when  she  sets 
forth  things,  them  things  is  decreed  an'  foreor 
dained.' " 

And  now  my  friend  lapsed  into  silence  and  began 
to  reload  his  pipe.  "  I  used  to  smoke  Lone  Jack 
out  on  the  plains,"  he  murmured,  "or  mebby 
Frootes  an'  Flowers ;  but  I  don't  know !  I  fig- 
gers  this  yere  Bull  Durham's  got  more  force  of 
char'cter." 

Then  came  more  silence.  But  the  night  was 
young  ;  I  was  disposed  to  hear  further  of  Wolfville 


23°  Wolfville  Days. 

and  its  worthy  citizens.  My  readiest  method  was 
to  put  forth  a  question. 

"  But  how  about  yourself  ?  "  I  asked;  "  Do  you, 
like  Hall  and  Boggs,  believe  that  Heaven  especially 
interferes  with  the  plans  of  man  ;  or  that  a  chal 
lenge,  direct  or  otherwise,  to  the  Powers  Above,  is 
liable  to  earn  reply  ?  " 

"  I  states  ag'in,"  he  retorted,  puffing  a  calmative 
cloud  the  while,  "  I  states  ag'in  :  Thar's  no  sooper- 
stition  ridin'  the  ranges  of  my  breast.  Yet  I  sees 
enough  in  a  long  an'  more  or  less  eventful  life — not 
to  say  an  ill-employed  life — to  know  that  Provi 
dence  packs  a  gun  ;  an',  as  more  than  one  scoffer 
finds  out,  she  don't  go  heeled  for  fun.  Thar's  that 
Gene  Watkins,  who  gets  killed  by  lightnin'  over  by 
the  Eagle  Claw  that  time ;  downed  for  blasphemin', 
he  is." 

"  Let  me  hear  about  this  Watkins,"  I  urged  ;  "  no 
one  is  more  interested  in  the  doings  of  Providence 
than  I." 

"  Which  from  what  little  I  notes  of  you,"  he  ob 
served,  regarding  me  with  a  glance  of  dubious,  sour 
suspicion,  "  you-all  shore  ought  to  be.  An'  I'll  tell 
you  one  thing:  If  Providence  ever  gets  wearied  of 
the  way  you  acts — an'  it  ain't  none  onlikely — you 
might  as  well  set  in  your  chips  an'  quit. 

"  But  as  to  this  yere  Watkins :  I  don't  know 
about  the  wisdom  of  burdenin'  you  with  Watkins. 
It's  gettin'  plenty  late,  an'  I'm  some  fatigued  my- 
se'f ;  I  must  be  organizin'  to  bed  myse'f  down  a  lot 
for  the  night.  I  ain't  so  cap'ble  of  sleeplessness  as 


The  Defiance  of  Gene  Watkins.  231 

I  am  'way  back  yonder  in  the  years  when  I'm 
workin'  cattle  along  the  old  Jones  an'  Plummer 
trail.  However,  it  won't  take  long,  this  Watkins 
killin';  an'  seein'  my  moods  is  in  the  saddle  that 
a-way,  I  may  as  well  let  you  have  it.  This  yere 
ain't  a  story  exackly  ;  it's  more  like  a  aneckdote  ; 
but  it  allers  strikes  me  as  sheddin'  a  ray  on  them 
speshul  Providences. 

"This  Watkins  is  a  mere  yooth ;  he  jumps  into 
Wolfville  from  the  Texas  Panhandle,  where,  it's 
rumored,  he's  been  over  free  with  a  gun.  How 
ever,  that  don't  bother  us  a  bit.  Arizona  conducts 
herse'f  on  the  principle  of  everybody  ridin'  his  own 
sign-camps,  an'  she  ain't  roundin*  up  escaped  felons 
for  no  commoonity  but  herse'f. 

"  The  first  time  I  sees  this  Watkins  party  is  one 
evenin'  when  he  sa'nters  down  the  middle  aisle  of 
the  Bird  Cage  Op'ry  House,  with  his  lariat  in  his 
hands,  an'  tosses  the  loop  over  a  lady  who's  jest 
then  renderin'  that  good  old  hymn : 

"  In  the  days  of  old,  the  days  of  gold, 
The  days  of  forty-nine ! 

"  It's  mighty  discouragin',  this  Watkins  breakin' 
in  on  them  melodies.  It's  more  than  discouragin', 
it's  scand'lous.  The  loop  is  a  bit  big,  an'  falls  cl'ar 
down  an'  fastens  to  this  cantatrice  by  the  fetlocks. 
An'  then  this  locoed  Watkins  turns  loose  to  pull 
her  over  the  footlights.  Which  the  worst  is,  havin' 
her  by  the  heels,  an'  shesettin'  down  that  a-way,  he 
pulls  that  lady  over  the  footlights  the  wrong  way. 


232  Wolfvillc  Days* 

"  It's  at  this  epock,  Jack  Moore,  who  in  his  capac« 
'ty  of  marshal  is  domineerin'  about  down  in  front, 
whacks  Watkins  over  the  head  with  his  six-shooter, 
an'  the  lady's  saved. 

"'  What  be  you-all  tryin'  to  do  with  this  diva?' 
demands  Moore  of  the  Watkins  party. 

" '  Which  I'm  enamored  of  her,'  says  this  yere 
Watkins,  'an'  thar's  a  heap  of  things  I  was  aimin'  to 
pour  into  her  y'ears.  But  now  you've  done  pounded 
me  on  top  with  that  gun,  they  all  gets  jolted  out  of 
my  mind/ 

"'  Jest  the  same,'  says  Moore,  '  if  I  was  you,  I'd 
take  the  saddle  off  my  emotions,  an'  hobble  'em  out 
to  rest  some.  Meanwhile  I'd  think  up  a  new  system. 
You-all  lacks  reticence  ;  also  you're  a  heap  too  much 
disposed  to  keep  yourse'f  in  the  public  eye.  I 
don't  know  how  it  is  in  Texas,  but  yere  in  Arizona 
a  gent  who  gets  too  cel'brated  gets  shot.  Also,  I 
might  add  in  concloosion  that  your  Panhandle  no 
tions  of  a  good  way  to  get  confidenshul  with  a  lady 
don't  obtain  none  yere — they  don't  go.  An'  so  I 
warns  you,  never  express  your  feelin's  with  a  lariat 
in  this  theayter  no  more.  Wolfville  yields  leeni- 
ency  to  ign'rance  once,  but  never  ag'in.' 

"  But,  as  I'm  sayin';  about  this  Watkins  over  on 
the  Eagle  Claw :  Thar's  a  half-dozen  of  us —  a 
floatin'  outfit  we  be,  ridin'  the  range,  pickin'  up 
what  calves  misses  the  spring  brandin' — an'  we're 
bringin'  along  mebby  three  hundred  cows  an'  half- 
grown  calves,  an*  headin'  for  the  bar-B-eight — that's 
Enright's  brand — corral  to  mark  the  calves.  It's 


The  Defiance  of  Gene  Watkins.  233 

late  in  August,  jest  at  the  beginnin'  of  the  rains. 
Thar's  a  storm,  an'  everybody's  in  the  saddle, 
plumb  down  to  the  cook,  tryin'  to  hold  the  bunch. 
It's  flash  on  flash  of  lightnin' ;  an'  thunder  followiii' 
on  the  heels  of  thunder-clap.  As  we-all  is  cirklin'  the 
little  herd,  an'  singin'  to  'em  to  restore  their  reason 
with  sounds  they  saveys,  thar  comes  a  most  inord'- 
nate  flash  of  lightnin',  an*  a  crash  of  thunder  like 
a  mountain  fallin* ;  it  sort  o'  stands  us  up  on  our 
hocks.  It  makes  the  pore  cattle  bat  their  eyes,  an' 
almost  knocks  their  horns  off. 

"  Thar's  a  moment  of  silence  followin' ;  an'  then 
this  yere  ontamed  Watkins,  tossin'  his  hand  at  the 
sky,  shouts  out : 

"  '  Blaze  away  !  my  gray-head  creator  !  You-all 
has  been  shootin'  at  me  for  twenty  years  ;  you  ain't 
hit  me  yet ! ' 

"  Watkins  is  close  to  Boggs  when  he  cuts  loose 
this  yere  defiance  ;  an'  it  simply  scares  Boggs  cold  ! 
He's  afraid  he'll  get  picked  off  along  with  Watkins. 
Boggs,  in  his  frenzy,  pulls  his  six-shooter,  an'  goes  to 
dictatin'  with  it  towards  Watkins. 

"  '  Pull  your  freight,'  roars  Boggs ;  *  don't  you 
stay  near  me  none.  Get,  or  I'll  give  you  every 
load  in  the  gun/ 

"  This  Watkins  person  spurs  his  cayouse  away  ; 
at  the  same  time  he's  laughin'  at  Boggs,  deemin* 
his  terrors  that  a-way  as  reedic'lous.  As  he  does, 
a  streak  of  white  fire  comes  down,  straight  as  a 
blazin'  arrer,  an'  with  it  sech  a  whirl  of  thunder, 
which  I  thought  the  earth  had  split !  An'  it  shorely 
runs  the  devil's  brand  on  Watkins. 


234  Wolfville  Days. 

"  When  we  recovers,  thar  he  lies  ;  dead — an'  his 
pony  dead  with  him.  An'  he  must  have  got  the 
limit  ;  for,  son,  the  very  rowels  of  his  spurs  is 
melted.  Right  in  the  middle  of  his  leather  hat 
band,  where  it  covers  his  fore'ead,  thar's  burned  a 
hole  about  the  size  of  a  44-calibre  bullet ;  that's 
where  the  bolt  goes  in.  I  remembers,  as  we  gath 
ers  'round,  how  Boggs  picks  up  the  hat.  It's 
stopped  rainin'  of  a  sudden,  an'  the  stars  is  showin' 
two  or  three,  where  the  clouds  is  partin'  away. 
Boggs  stands  thar  lookin'  first  at  the  sky,  an'  then 
at  the  hat  where  the  hole  is.  Then  he  shakes  his 
head.  '  She's  a  long  shot,  but  a  center  one/  says 
Boggs." 


CHAPTER  XVI* 

Colonel  Sterett's  War  Record. 

IT  had  been  dark  and  overcast  as  to  skies  ;  the 
weather,  however,  was  found  serene  and  balmy 
enough.  As  I  climbed  the  steps  after  my  afternoon 
canter,  I  encountered  the  Old  Cattleman.  He  was 
re-locating  one  of  the  big  veranda  chairs  more  to 
his  comfort,  and  the  better  to  enjoy  his  tobacco. 
He  gave  me  a  glance  as  I  came  up. 

"  Them's  mighty  puny  spurs,"  he  observed  with 
an  eye  of  half  commiseration,  half  disdain  ;  "  them's 
shore  reedic'lous.  Which  they'd  destroy  your 
standin'  with  a  cow  pony,  utter.  He'd  fill  up  with 
contempt  for  you  like  a  water-hole  in  April. 
Shore !  it's  the  rowels ;  they  oughter  be  about 
the  size  an'  shape  of  a  mornin'  star,  them  rowels 
had.  Then  a  gent  might  hope  for  action.  An' 
whyever  don't  you-all  wear  leather  chapps  that 
a-vvay,  instead  of  them  jimcrow  boots  an'  trousers  ? 
They're  plumb  amoosin',  them  garments  be.  No, 
I  onderstands  ;  you  don't  go  chargin'  about  in  the 
bresh  an*  don't  need  chapps,  but  still  you  oughter 
don  'em  for  the  looks.  Thar's  a  wrong  an'  a  right 
way  to  do  ;  an'  chapps  is  right.  Thar's  Johnny 
Cook  of  the  Turkey  Track ;  he's  like  you  ;  he  con 
temns  chapps.  Johnny  charges  into  a  wire  fence 


236  Wolfville  Days. 

one  midnight,  sort  o'  sidles  into  said  boundary  full 
surge;  after  that  Johnny  wears  chapps  all  right. 
Does  it  hurt  him?  Son,  them  wires  t'ars  enough 
hide  off  Johnny,  from  some'ers  about  the  hock,  to 
make  a  saddle  cover,  an'  he  loses  blood  sufficient 
to  paint  a  house.  He  comes  mighty  near  goin'  shy 
a  laig  on  the  deal.  It's  a  lesson  on  c'rrect  costumes 
that  Johnny  don't  soon  forget. 

"  No,  I  never  rides  a  hoss  none  now.  These  yere 
Eastern  saddles  ain't  the  right  model.  Which  they's 
a  heap  too  low  in  the  cantle  an'  too  low  in  the  horn. 
An*  them  stirrup  leathers  is  too  short,  an'  two  inches 
too  far  for'ard.  I  never  does  grade  over-high  for 
ridin'  a  hoss,  even  at  my  best.  No,  I  don't  get^ 
pitched  off  more'n  is  comin'  to  me  ;  still,  I  ain't 
p'inted  out  to  tenderfeet  as  no  'Centaur'  as  Doc 
Peets  calls  'em.  I  gets  along  without  buckin'  straps, 
an'  my  friends  don't  have  to  tie  no  roll  of  blankets 
across  my  saddle-horn,  an'  that's  about  the  best  I 
can  report. 

"  Texas  Thompson  most  likely  is  the  chief 
equestr'an  of  Wolfville.  One  time  Texas  makes  a 
wager  of  a  gallon  of  licker  with  Jack  Moore,  an' 
son  !  yere's  what  Texas  does.  I  sees  him  with  these 
eyes.  Texas  takes  his  rope  an'  ties  down  a  bronco  ; 
one  the  record  whereof  is  that  he's  that  toomultu- 
ous  no  one  can  ride  him.  Most  gents  would  have 
ducked  at  the  name  of  this  yere  steed,  the  same 
bein'  '  Dynamite.'  But  Texas  makes  the  bet  I 
mentions,  an'  lays  for  this  onrooly  cayouse  with  all 
the  confidence  of  virgin  gold  that  a-way. 


Colonel  Sterett's  War  Record*  237 

"  Texas  ropes  an'  ties  him  down  an'  cinches  the 
saddle  onto  him  while  he's  layin'  thar  ;  Tutt  kneelin' 
on  his  locoed  head  doorin'  the  ceremony.  Then 
Tutt  throws  him  loose ;  an'  when  he  gets  up  he 
nacherally  rises  with  Texas  Thompson  on  his  back. 

"  First,  that  bronco  stands  in  a  daze,  an'  Texas 
takes  advantage  of  his  trance  to  lay  two  silver  dol 
lars  on  the  saddle,  one  onder  each  of  his  laigs.  An* 
final,  you  should  shorely  have  beheld  that  bronco 
put  his  nose  between  his  laigs  an'  arch  himse'f  an' 
buck  !  Reg'lar  worm-fence  buckin'  it  is  ;  an'  when 
he  ain't  hittin'  the  ground,  he's  shore  abundant 
in  that  atmosphere  a  lot. 

"  In  the  midst  of  these  yere  flights,  which  the 
same  is  enough  to  stim'late  the  imagination  of  a 
Apache,  Texas,  as  ca'm  an'  onmoved  as  the  Spanish 
Peaks,  rolls  an'  lights  a  cigarette.  Then  he  picks 
up  the  bridle  an'  gives  that  roysterin'  bronco  jest 
enough  of  the  Mexican  bit  to  fill  his  mouth  with 
blood  an'  his  mind  with  doubts,  an'  stops  him. 
When  Texas  swings  to  the  ground,  them  two  silver 
dollars  comes  jinglin'  along;  which  he  holds  'em  to 
the  saddle  that  a-way  throughout  them  exercises. 
It's  them  dollars  an'  the  cigarette  that  raises  the 
licker  issue  between  Jack  an'  Texas  ;  an'  of  course, 
Texas  quits  winner  for  the  nose-paint." 

I  had  settled  by  this  time  into  a  chair  convenient 
to  my  reminiscent  companion,  and  relishing  the 
restful  ease  after  a  twenty-mile  run,  decided  to  pro 
long  the  talk.  Feeling  for  subjects,  I  became 
tentatively  curious  concerning  politics. 


238  Wolfville  Days* 

"  Cow  people,"  said  my  friend,  "  never  saveys 
pol'tics.  I  wouldn't  give  a  Mexican  sheep — which 
is  the  thing  of  lowest  valyoo  I  knows  of  except 
Mexicans  themse'fs — for  the  views  of  any  cow- 
puncher  on  them  questions  of  state.  You  can 
gamble  an'  make  the  roof  the  limit,  them  opinions, 
when  you-all  once  gets  'em  rounded  up,  would  be 
shore  loodicrous,  not  to  say  footile. 

"  Now,  we-all  wolves  of  Wolfville  used  to  let 
Colonel  Sterett  do  our  polit'cal  yelpin'  for  us  ;  sort 
o*  took  his  word  for  p'sition  an'  stood  pat  tharon. 
It's  in  the  Red  Light  the  very  evenin'  when  Texas 
subdoos  that  bronco,  an'  lets  the  whey  outen  Jack 
Moore  to  the  extent  of  said  jug  of  Valley  Tan,  that 
Colonel  Sterett  goes  off  at  a  round  road-gait  on  this 
yere  very  topic  of  pol'tics,  an'  winds  up  by  tellin* 
us  of  his  attitood,  personal,  doorin'  the  civil  war,  an' 
the  debt  he  owes  some  Gen'ral  named  Wheeler  for 
savin'  of  his  life. 

" 4  Pol'tics,'  remarks  Colonel  Sterett  on  that 
o'casion,  re-fillin'  his  glass  for  the  severaleth  time, 
*  jest  nacherally  oozes  from  a  editor,  as  you-all  who 
reads  reg'larly  the  Coyote  b'ars  witness ;  he's  sat 
urated  with  pol'tics  same  as  Huggins  is  with  whiskey. 
As  for  myse'f,  aside  from  my  vocations  of  them 
tripods,  pol'tics  is  inborn  in  me.  I  gets  'em  from 
my  grandfather,  as  tall  a  sport  an'  as  high-rollin'  a 
statesman  as  ever  packs  a  bowie  or  wins  the  beef  at 
a  shootin'  match  in  old  Kaintucky.  Yes,  sir,'  says 
the  Colonel,  an'  thar's  a  pensive  look  in  his  eyes 
like  he's  countin'  up  that  ancestor's  merits  in  his 


Colonel  Sterett's  War  Record.  239 

mem'ry ;  *  pol'tics  with  me  that-away  is  shore  con 
genital.' 

"  '  Congenital !  '  says  Dan  Boggs,  an'  his  tones  is 
a  heap  satisfact'ry  ;  *  an'  thar's  a  word  that's  good 
enough  for  a  dog.  I  reckons  I'll  tie  it  down  an' 
brand  it  into  my  bunch  right  yere.' 

"  '  My  grandfather,'  goes  on  the  Colonel,  *  is 
a  Jackson  man  ;  from  the  top  of  the  deck  plumb 
down  to  the  hock  kyard,  he's  nothirT  but  Jackson. 
This  yere  attitood  of  my  grandsire,  an'  him  camped 
in  the  swarmin'  midst  of  a  Henry  Clay  country,  is 
frootf  ul  of  adventures  an'  calls  for  plenty  nerve.  But 
the  old  Spartan  goes  through. 

"  '  Often  as  a  child,  that  old  gent  has  done  took 
me  on  his  knee  an'  told  me  how  he  meets  up  first 
with  Gen'ral  Jackson.  He's  goin*  down  the  river 
in  one  of  them  little  old  steamboats  of  that  day, 
an'  the  boat  is  shore  crowded.  My  grandfather 
has  to  sleep  on  the  floor,  as  any  more  in  the  bunks 
would  mean  a  struggle  for  life  an'  death.  Thar's 
plenty  of  bunkless  gents,  however,  besides  him,  an' 
as  he  sinks  into  them  sound  an'  dreamless  slumbers 
which  is  the  her'tage  of  folks  whose  consciences  run 
troo,  he  hears  'em  drinkin'  an'  talkin'  an'  barterin' 
mendacity,  an'  argyfyin'  pol'tics  on  all  sides. 

"  '  My  grandfather  sleeps  on  for  hours,  an'  is  only 
aroused  from  them  torpors,  final,  by  some  sport 
chunkin'  him  a  thump  in  the  back.  The  old  lion  is 
sleepin*  on  his  face,  that  a-way,  an'  when  he  gets 
mauled  like  I  relates,  he  wakes  up  an'  goes  to 
struggle  to  his  feet. 


Wolfville  Days. 

"  *  "  B'ars  an*  buffaloes  !  "  says  my  grandfather  ; 
"  whatever's  that  ?  " 

"  ' "  Lay  still,  stranger,"  says  the  party  who 
smites  him  ;  "  I've  only  got  two  to  go." 

"  '  That's  what  it  is.  It's  a  couple  of  gents  play- 
in'  seven-up  ;  an*  bein'  crowded,  they  yootilizes  my 
grandfather  for  a  table.  This  sport  is  swingin'  the 
ace  for  the  opp'site  party's  jack,  an'  he  boards  his 
kyard  with  that  enthoosiasm  it  comes  mighty  clost 
to  dislocatin'  my  old  gent's  shoulder.  But  he's  the 
last  Kaintuckian  to  go  interferin'  with  the  reecrea- 
tions  of  others,  so  he  lays  thar  still  an'  prone  till 
the  hand's  played  out. 

"  '  "  High,  jack,  game  !  "  says  the  stranger,  count- 
in*  up  ;  "  that  puts  me  out  an'  one  over  for  lannyap." 

"  '  This  yere  seven-up  gent  turns  out  to  be  Gen'- 
ral  Jackson,  an'  him  an'  my  grandfather  camps 
down  in  a  corner,  drinks  up  the  quart  of  Cincinnati 
Rectified  which  is  the  stakes,  an'  becomes  mootually 
acquainted.  An',  gents,  I  says  it  with  pride,  the 
hero  of  the  Hoss-shoe,  an*  the  walloper  of  them 
English  at  New  Orleans  takes  to  my  grandfather 
like  a  honeysuckle  to  a  front  porch. 

"'My  grandfather  comes  plenty  near  forfeitin' 
them  good  opinions  of  the  Gen'ral,  though.  It's 
the  next  day,  an'  that  ancestor  of  mine  an'  the 
Gen'ral  is  recoverin*  themse'fs  from  the  conversation 
of  the  night  before  with  a  glass  or  two  of  tanzy 
bitters,  when  a  lady,  who  descends  on  the  boat  at 
Madison,  comes  bulgin'  into  the  gents'  cabin.  The 
capfiin  an'  two  or  three  of  the  boat's  folks  tries  to 


Colonel  Sterett's  War  Record.  241 

herd  her  into  the  women's  cabin  ;  but  she  withers 
'em  with  a  look,  breshes  'em  aside,  an'  stampedes 
along  in  among  the  men-people  like  I  explains. 
About  forty  of  'em's  smokin' ;  an*  as  tobacco  is  a 
fav'rite  weakness  of  the  tribe  of  Sterett,  my  grand 
father  is  smokin'  too. 

"  *  "  I  wants  you-all  to  make  these  yere  miscreants 
stop  smokin',"  says  the  lady  to  the  captain,  who 
follows  along  thinkin'  mebby  he  gets  her  headed 
right  after  she's  had  her  run  out  an'  tires  down 
some.  "  You're  the  captain  of  this  tub,"  says  the 
lady,  "  an'  I  demands  my  rights.  Make  these 
barb'rous  miscreants  stop  smokin',  or  I  leaves  the 
boat  ag'in  right  yere." 

"  '  The  lady's  plumb  fierce,  an*  her  face,  which  is 
stern  an'  heroic,  carries  a  capac'ty  for  trouble  lurk- 
in*  'round  in  it,  same  as  one  of  them  bald  hornet's 
nests  on  a  beech  limb.  Nacherally  my  grandfather's 
gaze  gets  riveted  on  this  lady  a  whole  lot,  his  pipe 
hangin*  forgetful  from  his  lips.  The  lady's  eyes  all 
at  once  comes  down  on  my  grandfather,  partic'lar 
an*  personal,  like  a  milk-crock  from  a  high  shelf. 

"'"An'  I  means  you  speshul,"  says  the  lady, 
p'intin'  the  ringer  of  scorn  at  my  grandfather. 
"  The  idee  of  you  standin'  thar  smokin'  in  my  very 
face,  an*  me  a  totterin'  invalid.  It  shorely  shows 
you  ain't  nothin*  but  a  brute.  If  I  was  your  wife 
I'd  give  you  p'isen." 

"  *  "  Which  if  you  was  my  wife,  I'd  shore  take  it," 
says  my  grandfather  ;  for  them  epithets  spurs  him 
on  the  raw,  an'  he  forgets  he's  a  gent,  that  a-'vay, 


242  Wolfville  Days. 

an*  lets  fly  this  yere  retort  before  he  can  give  him* 
se'f  the  curb. 

"  'The  moment  my  grandfather  makes  them  ob 
servations,  the  lady  catches  her  face — which  as  I 
tells  you  is  a  cross  between  a  gridiron  an*  a  steel 
trap — with  both  her  hands,  shakes  her  ha'r  down 
her  back,  an'  cuts  loose  a  scream  which,  like  a  b'ar 
in  a  hawg-pen,  carries  all  before  it.  Then  she  falls 
into  the  captain's  arms  an'  orders  him  to  pack  her 
out  on  deck  where  she  can  faint. 

"  '  "  Whatever  be  you-all  insultin'  this  yere  lady 
for  ?  "  says  a  passenger,  turnin'  on  my  grandfather 
like  a  crate  of  wildcats.  "  Which  I'm  the  Roarin' 
Wolverine  of  Smoky  Bottoms,  an'  I  waits  for  a 
reply." 

" '  My  grandfather  is  standin'  thar  some  con- 
foosed  an'  wrought  up,  an'  as  warm  as  a  wolf, 
thinkin'  how  ornery  he's  been  by  gettin'  acrid  with 
that  lady.  The  way  he  feels,  this  yere  Roarin' 
Wolverine  party  comes  for'ard  as  a  boon.  The  old 
gent  simply  falls  upon  him,  jaw  an'  claw,  an'  goes 
to  smashin'  furniture  an'  fixin's  with  him. 

"  '  The  Roarin'  Wolverine  allows  after,  when  him 
an'  my  grandfather  drinks  a  toddy  an'  compares 
notes,  while  a  jack-laig  doctor  who's  aboard  sews 
the  Roarin'  Wolverine's  y'ear  back  on,  that  he  thinks 
at  the  time  it's  the  boat  blowin'  up. 

" '  "  She's  shore  the  vividest  skrimmage  I  ever 
partic'pates  in,"  says  the  Roarin'  Wolverine  ;  "an* 
the  busiest.  I  wouldn't  have  missed  it  for  a  small 
clay  farm." 


Colonel  Sterett's  War  Record*  243 

"  *  But  Gen'ral  Jackson  when  he  comes  back  from 
offerin'  condolences  to  the  lady,  looks  dignified  an* 
shakes  his  head  a  heap  grave. 

"  '  "  Them  contoomelious  remarks  to  the  lady,"  he 
says  to  my  grandfather,  "  lowers  you  in  my  esteem 
a  lot.  An'  while  the  way  you  breaks  up  that  settee 
with  the  Roarin'  Wolverine  goes  some  towards  re- 
establishin'  you,  still  I  shall  not  look  on  you  as  the 
gent  I  takes  you  for,  ontil  you  seeks  this  yere  in 
jured  female  an'  crawfishes  on  that  p'isen-takin* 
bluff." 

"  '  So  my  grandfather  goes  out  on  deck  where  the 
lady  is  still  sobbin'  an*  hangin'  on  the  captain's  neck 
like  the  loop  of  a  rope,  an'  apol'gizes.  Then  the 
lady  takes  a  brace,  accepts  them  contritions,  an' 
puts  it  up  for  her  part  that  she  can  see  my  grand 
father's  a  shore-enough  gent  an'  a  son  of  chivalry ; 
an'  with  that  the  riot  winds  up  plumb  pleasant  all 
'round.' 

"  '  If  I  may  come  romancin*  in  yere/  says  Doc 
Peets,  sort  o'  breakin'  into  the  play  at  this  p'int, 
'with  a  interruption,  I  wants  to  say  that  I  regyards 
this  as  a  very  pretty  narratif,  an'  requests  the  drinks 
onct  to  the  Colonel's  grandfather.'  We  drinks  ac- 
cordin',  an'  the  Colonel  resoomes. 

"'  My  grandfather  comes  back  from  this  yere  ex 
pedition  down  the  Ohio  a  most  voylent  Jackson 
man.  An'  he's  troo  to  his  faith  as  a  adherent  to 
Jackson  through  times  when  the  Clay  folks  gets 
that  intemp'rate  they  hunts  'em  with  dogs.  The 
old  gent  was  wont,  as  I  su'gests,  to  regale  my 


244  Wolfville  Days. 

childish  y'ears  with  the  story  of  what  he  suffers. 
He  tells  how  he  goes  pirootin'  off  among  the  farm 
ers  in  the  back  counties;  sleepin'  on  husk  beds,  till 
the  bed-ropes  cuts  plumb  through  an*  marks  out  a 
checker-board  on  his  frame  that  would  stay  for 
months.  Once  he's  sleepin'  in  a  loft,  an'  all  of  a 
sudden  about  daybreak  the  old  gent  hears  a  squall 
that  mighty  near  locoes  him,  it's  so  clost  an*  tum 
ble.  He  boils  out  on  the  floor  an'  begins  to  claw 
on  his  duds,  allowin',  bein'  he's  only  half  awake  that 
a-way,  that  it's  a  passel  of  them  murderin'  Clay 
Whigs  who's  come  to  crawl  his  hump  for  shore. 
But  she's  a  false  alarm.  It's  only  a  Dom'nick 
rooster  who's  been  perched  all  night  on  my  grand 
father's  wrist  where  his  arm  sticks  outen  bed,  an' 
who's  done  crowed  a  whole  lot,  as  is  his  habit  when 
he  glints  the  comin'  day.  It's  them  sort  o'  things 
that  sends  a  shudder  through  you,  an'  shows  what 
that  old  patriot  suffers  for  his  faith. 

"  *  But  my  grandfather  keeps  on  prevailin'  along 
in  them  views  ontil  he  jest  conquers  his  county  an' 
carries  her  for  Jackson.  Shore !  he  has  trouble  at 
the  polls,  an'  trouble  in  the  conventions.  But  he 
persists ;  an'  he's  that  domineerin'  an'  dogmatic 
they  at  last  not  only  gives  him  his  way,  but  comes 
rackin'  along  with  him.  In  the  last  convention,  he 
nacherally  herds  things  into  a  corner,  an'  thar's  only 
forty  votes  ag'in  him  at  the  finish.  My  grand 
father  allers  says  when  relatin'  of  it  to  me  long 
afterwards : 

"'  "  An'  grandson  Willyum,  five  gallons  more  of 


Colonel  Sterett's  War  Record,  245 

rum  would  have  made  that  convention  yoonani- 
mous." 

"  '  But  what  he'ps  the  old  gent  most  towards  the 
last,  is  a  j'int  debate  he  has  with  Spence  Wither- 
spoon,  which  begins  with  reecrim'nations  an*  winds 
up  with  the  guns.  Also,  it  leaves  this  yere  aggra- 
vatin'  Witherspoon  less  a  whole  lot. 

"  <  "  Wasn't  you-all  for  nullification,  an'  ain't  you 
now  for  Jackson  an'  the  union  ?  "  asks  this  yere  in- 
sultin'  Witherspoon.  "  Didn't  you  make  a  Calhoun 
speech  over  on  Mink  Run  two  years  ago,  an'  ain't 
you  at  this  barbecue,  to-day,  consoomin'  burgoo  an* 
shoutin'  for  Old  Hickory?" 

"'"  What  you-all  states  is  troo,"  says  my  grand 
father.  "  But  my  party  turns,  an'  I  turns  with  it. 
You-all  can't  lose  Jack  Sterett.  He  can  turn  so 
quick  the  heels  of  his  moccasins  will  be  in  front." 

"  *  "  Which  them  talents  of  yours  for  change," 
says  Witherspoon,  "  reminds  me  a  powerful  lot  of 
the  story  of  how  Jedge  Chinn  gives  Bill  Hatfield, 
the  blacksmith,  that  Berkshire  suckin'  pig." 

" '  "  An'  whatever  is  that  story  ? "  asks  my 
grandfather  ,  beginnin'  to  loosen  his  bowie-knife  in 
its  sheath. 

" ' "  Take  your  paws  off  that  old  butcher  of 
your'n,"  returns  this  pesterin'  Witherspoon,  "an* 
I'll  tell  the  story.  But  you've  got  to  quit  triflin' 
with  that  'leven-inch  knife  ontil  I'm  plumb  through, 
or  I'll  fool  you  up  a  lot  an'  jest  won't  tell  it." 

"  'Tharupon  my  grandfather  takes  his  hand  offen 
the  knife-haft,  an'  Witherspoon  branches  forth  : 


246  Wolfville  Days* 

"  *  "  When  I  recalls  how  this  oncompromisin1 
outlaw,"  p'intin*  to  my  grandfather,  "  talks  for 
Calhoun  an'  nullification  over  on  Mink  Run,  an'  to 
day  is  yere  shoutin'  in  a  rum-sodden  way  for  the 
union  an'  Andy  Jackson,  as  I  observes  yeretofore, 
it  shore  reminds  me  of  the  story  of  how  Jedge 
Chinn  give  Bill  Hatfield  that  Berkshire  shoat. 
'  Send  over  one  of  your  niggers  with  a  basket  an' 
let  him  get  one,  Bill,'  says  Jedge  Chinn,  who's  been 
tellin'  Hatfield  about  the  pigs.  Next  day,  Bill 
mounts  his  nigger  boy,  Dick,  on  a  mule,  with  a 
basket  on  his  arm,  an'  Dick  lines  out  for  Jedge 
Chinn's  for  to  fetch  away  that  little  hcwg.  Dick 
puts  him  in  the  basket,  climbs  onto  hi  mule,  an* 
goes  teeterin'  out  for  home.  On  the  way  back, 
Dick  stops  at  Hickman's  tavern.  While  he's  pour- 
in'  in  a  gill  of  corn  jooce,  a  wag  who's  present  sub 
tracts  the  pig  an'  puts  in  one  of  old  Hickman's 
black  Noofoundland  pups.  When  Dick  gets  home 
to  Bill  Hatfield's,  Bill  takes  one  look  at  the  pup, 
breaks  the  big  rasp  on  Dick's  head,  throws  the  fore- 
hammer  at  him,  an'  bids  him  go  back  to  Jedge 
Chinn  an'  tell  him  that  he,  Bill,  will  sally  over  the 
first  dull  day  an'  p'isen  his  cattle  an'  burn  his  barns. 
Dick  takes  the  basket  full  of  dog  on  his  arm,  an* 
goes  p'intin'  for  Jedge  Chinn.  Nacherally,  Dick 
stops  at  Hickman's  tavern  so  as  to  mollify  his 
feelin's  with  that  red-eye.  This  yere  wag  gets  in 
ag'in  on  the  play,  subtracts  the  pup  an'  restores  the 
little  hawg  a  whole  lot.  When  Dick  gets  to  Jedge 
Chinn,  he  enfolds  to  the  Jedge  touchin'  them  trans- 


Colonel  Sterett's  War  Record*  247 

formations  from  pig  to  pup.  '  Pshaw ! '  says  the 
Jedge,  who's  one  of  them  pos'tive  sharps  that  no 
ghost  tales  is  goin'  to  shake  ;  *  pshaw  !  Bill  Hat- 
field's  gettin'  to  be  a  loonatic.  I  tells  him  the  last 
time  I  has  my  hoss  shod  that  if  he  keeps  on  pourin' 
down  that  Hickman  whiskey,  he'll  shorely  die,  an' 
begin  by  dyin'  at  the  top.  These  yere  illoosions  of 
his  shows  I  drives  the  center.'  Then  the  Jedge 
oncovers  the  basket  an'  turns  out  the  little  hawg. 
When  nigger  Dick  sees  him,  he  falls  on  his  knees. 

*  I'm  a  chu'ch  member,   Marse   Jedge,'  says  Dick, 

*  an'  you-all  believes  what  I   says.     That  anamile's 
conjured,  Jedge.     I  sees  him  yere  an'  I   sees  him 
thar;  an',  Jedge,  he's  either  pig  or  pup,  whichever 
way  he  likes.' 

"  '  "  An',  ladies  an'  gents,"  concloodes  this  With- 
erspoon,  makin'  a  incriminatin'  gesture  so's  to  in- 
cloode  my  grandfather  that  a-way  ;  "  when  I  reflects 
on  this  onblushin'  turncoat,  Jack  Sterett,  as  I  states 
prior,  it  makes  me  think  of  how  Jedge  Chinn 
lavishes  that  Berkshire  shoat  on  blacksmith  Bill 
Hatfield.  Confessin'  that  aforetime  he's  a  nullifica 
tion  pig  on  Mink  Run,  he  sets  yere  at  this  barbecue 
an*  without  color  of  shame  declar's  himse'f  a  union 
pup.  Mister  Cha'rman,  all  I  can  say  is,  it  shore 
beats  squinch  owls  !  " 

"  '  As  the  story  is  finished,  the  trooce  which  binds 
my  grandfather  ends,  an'  he  pulls  his  bowie-knife 
an'  chases  this  Witherspoon  from  the  rostrum. 
He'd  had  his  detractor's  skelp  right  thar,  but  the 
cha'rman  an'  other  lead  in'  sperits  interferes,  an* 


248  Wolfville  Days. 

insists  on  them  resentments  of  my  grandfather's 
findin'  the  us,ual  channel  in  their  expression. 
Witherspoon,  who's  got  on  a  new  blanket  coat, 
allows  he  won't  fight  none  with  knives  as  they  cuts 
an'  sp'iles  your  clothes  ;  he  says  he  prefers  rifles  an' 
fifty  paces  for  his.  My  grandfather,  who's  the 
easiest  gent  to  get  along  with  in  matters  of  mere 
detail,  is  agree'ble  ;  an'  as  neither  him  nor  Wither 
spoon  has  brought  their  weepons,  the  two  vice 
pres'dents,  who's  goin'  to  act  as  seconds — the  pres- 
'dent  by  mootual  consent  dealin'  the  game  as 
referee — rummages  about  arr'  borrys  a  brace  of 
Looeyville  rifles  from  members  of  the  Black  B'ar 
Glee  Club — they're  the  barytone  an'  tenor — an' 
my  grandfather  an'  the  scandal-mongerin'  Wither 
spoon  is  stood  up. 

"  '  "  Gents,"  says  the  pres'dent,  "the  words  will 
be,  '  Fire-one-two-three-stop.'  It's  incumbent  on 
you-all  to  blaze  away  anywhere  between  the  words 
*  Fire  '  an'  '  Stop'.  My  partin'  injunctions  is,  *  May 
heaven  defend  the  right,'  an'  be  shore  an'  see  your 
hindsights  as  you  onhooks  your  guns." 

"  'At  the  word,  my  grandfather  an'  Witherspoon 
responds  prompt  an*  gay.  Witherspoon  over 
shoots,  while  my  grandfather  plants  his  lead  in 
among  Witherspoon's  idees,  an'  that  racontoor 
quits  Kaintucky  for  the  other  world  without  a 
m  u  rm  u  r. 

"  *  "  I  regyards  this  event  as  a  vict'ry  for  Jackson 
an'  principle,"  says  my  grandfather,  as  he's  called 
on  to  proceed  with  his  oration,  "  an*  I'd  like  to  say 


Colonel  Sterett's  War  Record*  249 

in  that  connection,  if  Henry  Clay  will  count  his 
spoons  when  he  next  comes  sneakin'  home  from 
Washington,  he'll  find  he's  short  Spence  Wither- 
spoon." 

" '  Your  grandfather's  a  troo  humorist,'  says 
Texas  Thompson,  as  Colonel  Sterett  pauses  in 
them  recitals  of  his  to  reach  the  bottle ;  '  I  looks 
on  that  last  witticism  of  his  as  plumb  apt.' 

"  *  My  grandfather,'  resoomes  Colonel  Sterett, 
after  bein'  refreshed,  '  is  as  full  of  fun  as  money- 
musk,  an'  when  that  audience  gets  onto  the  joke  in 
its  completeness,  the  merriment  is  wide  an  yooni- 
versal.  It's  the  hit  of  the  barbecue ;  an'  in  this 
way,  little  by  little,  my  grandfather  wins  his  neigh 
bors  to  his  beliefs,  ontil  he's  got  the  commoonity 
all  stretched  an'  hawgtied,  an'  brands  her  triumph 
ant  for  Gen'ral  Jackson.' 

" l  An'  does  your  own  pap  follow  in  the  foot 
prints  of  his  old  gent,  as  a  convincin' an' determined 
statesman  that  a-way  ?  '  asks  Doc  Peets. 

" '  No,'  says  Colonel  Sterett,  '  my  own  personal 
parent  simmers  down  a  whole  lot  compared  to  my 
grandfather.  He  don't  take  his  pol'tics  so  much 
to  heart ;  his  democracy  ain't  so  virulent  an'  don't 
strike  in.  His  only  firm  stand  on  questions  of 
state,  as  I  relates  the  other  day,  is  when  he  insists 
on  bein'  nootral  doorin'  the  late  war.  I  explains 
how  he  talks  federal  an'  thinks  reb,  an'  manages, 
that  a-way,  to  promote  a  decent  average. 

"  '  His  nootrality,  however,  don't  incloode  the 
fam'ly  none.  My  brother  Jeff — an*  I  never  beholds 


250  Wolfville  Days* 

a  haughtier  sperit — goes  squanderin'  off  with  Mor 
gan  at  the  first  boogie  call,' 

" '  That  raid  of  Morgan's,'  says  Enright,  his  eye 
brightenin',  *  is  plumb  full  of  dash  an'  fire.' 

"  '  Shore,'  says  the  Colonel,  '  plumb  full  of  dash 
an'  fire.  But  Jeff  tells  me  of  it  later,  foot  by  foot, 
from  the  time  they  crosses  the  river  into  Injeanny, 
till  they  comes  squatterin'  across  at  Blennerhasset's 
Island  into  Kaintucky  ag'in,  an'  I  sadly,  though 
frankly,  admits  it  looks  like  it  possesses  some  ele 
ments  of  a  chicken-stealin'  expedition  also.  Jeff  says 
he  never  sees  so  many  folks  sincere,  an'  with  their 
minds  made  up,  as  him  an'  Morgan  an'  the  rest  of 
the  Bloo  Grass  chivalry  encounters  on  that  croosade. 
Thar's  an  uprisin'  of  the  peasantry,  Jeff  says,  where- 
ever  they  goes ;  an'  them  clods  pursooes  Jeff  an' 
the  others,  from  start  to  finish,  with  hoes  an'  rakes 
an'  mattocks  an'  clothes-poles  an'  puddin'-sticks  an' 
other  barbarous  an*  obsolete  arms,  an'  never  lets 
up  ontil  Jeff  an*  Morgan  an'  their  gallant  comrades 
is  ag'in  safe  in  the  arms  of  their  Kaintucky  breth 
ren.  Their  stay  in  any  given  spot  is  trooly  brief. 
That  town  of  Cincinnati  makes  up  a  bundle  of 
money  big  enough  to  choke  a  cow  to  give  'em  as  a 
ransom  ;  but  Jeff  an'  Morgan  never  do  hear  of  it 
for  years.  They  goes  by  so  plumb  swift  they  don't 
get  notice  ;  an'  they  fades  away  in  the  distance  so 
fast  they  keeps  ahead  of  the  news.  However,  they 
gets  back  to  Kaintucky  safe  an'  covered  with  dust 
an'  glory  in  even  parts  ;  an'  as  for  Jeff  speshul,  as 
the  harvest  of  his  valor,  he  reports  himse'f  the 


Colonel  Sterett's  War  Record.  251 

owner  of  a  one-sixth  interest  in  a  sleigh  which  him 
an'  five  of  his  indomitable  companions  has  done 
drug  across  the  river  on  their  return.  But  they 
don't  linger  over  this  trophy ;  dooty  calls  'em,  so 
they  stores  the  sleigh  in  a  barn  an'  rides  away  to 
further  honors. 

"  '  We  never  do  hear  of  Jeff  none  all  through  that 
war  but  once.  After  he's  j'ined  Stonewall  Jackson, 
I  recalls  how  he  sends  home  six  hundred  dollars  in 
confed'rate  money  with  a  letter  to  my  father.  It 
runs  like  this : 

In  camp  with  STONEWALL  JACKSON. 
Respected  Sir : 

The  slave  who  bears  this  will  give  you  from  me  a 
treasure  of  six  hundred  dollars.  I  desire  that  you  pay  the 
tavern  and  whatever  creditors  of  mine  you  find.  To  owe  debts 
does  not  comport  with  the  honor  of  a  cavalier,  and  I  propose 
to  silence  all  base  clamors  on  that  head.  I  remain,  most 
venerated  sir,  Yours  to  command, 

JEFFERSON  STERETT. 

"  '  That's  the  last  we-all  hears  of  my  sens'tive  an* 
high-sperited  brother  ontil  after  Mister  Lee  sur 
renders.  It's  one  mornin'  when  Jeff  comes  home, 
an'  the  manner  of  his  return  shorely  displays  his 
nobility  of  soul,  that  a-way,  as  ondiscouraged  an' 
ondimmed.  No  one's  lookin'  for  Jeff  partic'lar, 
when  I  hears  a  steamboat  whistle  for  our  landin'. 
I,  bein'  as  I  am  full  of  the  ontamed  cur'osity  of 
yooth,  goes  curvin'  out  to  see  what's  up.  I  hears 
the  pilot  give  the  engineer  the  bells  to  set  her  back 
on  the  sta'board  wheel,  an'  then  on  both.  The 


252  Wolfville  Days* 

boat  comes  driftin'  in.  A  stagin'  is  let  down,  an 
with  the  tread  of  a  conqueror  who  should  come 
ashore  but  my  brother  Jeff  !  Thar's  nothin'  in  his 
hands ;  he  ain't  got  nothin'  with  him  that  he  ain't 
wearin'.  An'  all  he  has  on  is  a  old  wool  hat,  a 
hick'ry  shirt,  gray  trousers,  an*  a  pair  of  copper- 
rivet  shoes  as  red  as  a  bay  hoss.  As  he  strikes  the 
bank,  Jeff  turns  an'  sweeps  the  scene  with  the  eye 
of  a  eagle.  Then  takin'  a  bogus  silver  watch  outen 
his  pocket,  he  w'irls  her  over  his  head  by  the 
leather  string  an'  lets  her  go  out  into  the  river, 
ker -chunk  ! 

"  '  "  Which  I  enters  into  this  yere  rebellion,"  says 
Jeff,  flashin'  a  proud,  high  glance  on  me  where  I 
stands  wonderin',  "  without  nothin',  an'  I  proposes 
to  return  with  honor  ontarnished,  an'  as  pore  as  I 
goes  in." 

"'As  me  an'  Jeff  reepairs  up  to  the  house,  I 
notes  the  most  renegade-lookin'  nigger  followin' 
behind. 

"  '  "  Whoever's  this  yere  nigger  ?  "    I  asks. 

"  '  "  He's  my  valet,"  says  Jeff. 

" '  My  arm's  a  heap  too  slight,'  goes  on  Colonel 
Sterett,  followin'  a  small  libation,  '  to  strike  a 
blow  for  the  confed'racy,  but  my  soul  is  shorely  in 
the  cause.  I  does  try  to  j'ine,  final,  an'  is  only 
saved  tharfrom,  an'  from  what  would,  ondoubted, 
have  been  my  certain  death,  by  a  reb  gen'ral  named 
Wheeler.  He  don't  mean  to  do  it ;  she's  inadver 
tent  so  far  as  he's  concerned  ;  but  he  saves  me  jest 
the  same.  An'  settin'  yere  as  I  be,  enjoyin*  the 


Colonel  Sterett's  War  Record.  253 

friendship  an'  esteem  of  you-all  citizens  of  Wolf- 
ville,  I  feels  more  an'  more  the  debt  of  gratitoode 
I  owes  that  gallant  officer  an'  man.' 

" '  However  does  this  Gen'ral  Wheeler  save 
you  ?  '  asks  Dan  Boggs.  '  Which  I'm  shore  eager 
to  hear.' 

"  '  The  tale  is  simple/  responds  the  Colonel, 
1  an'  it's  a  triboote  to  that  brave  commander  which 
I'm  allers  ready  to  pay.  It's  in  the  middle  years  of 
the  war,  an'  I'm  goin'  to  school  in  a  village  which 
lies  back  from  the  river,  an'  is  about  twenty  miles 
from  my  ancestral  home.  Thar's  a  stockade  in  the 
place  which  some  invadin'  Yanks  has  built,  an' 
thar's  about  twenty  of  'em  inside,  sort  o'  givin' 
orders  to  the  village  an'  makin'  its  patriotic  inhabi 
tants  either  march  or  mark  time,  whichever  chances 
to  be  their  Yankee  caprices. 

"  '  As  a  troo  Southern  yooth,  who  feels  for  his 
strugglin'  country,  I  loathes  them  Yankees  to  the 
limit,  an'  has  no  more  use  for  'em  than  Huggins 
has  for  a  temp'rance  lecturer. 

"'One  day  a  troop  of  reb  cavalry  jumps  into  the 
village,  an'  stampedes  these  yere  invaders  plumb 
off  the  scene.  We  gets  the  news  up  to  the  school, 
an'  adjourns  in  a  bunch  to  come  down  town  an* 
cel'brate  the  success  of  the  Southern  arms.  As  I 
arrives  at  the  field  of  carnage,  a  reb  cavalryman  is 
swingin'  outen  the  saddle.  He  throws  the  bridle  of 
his  hoss  to  me. 

"'"See  yere,  Bud,"  he  says,  "hold  my  hoss  a 
minute  while  I  sees  if  I  can't  burn  this  stockade," 


254  Woifville  Days, 

" '  I  stands  thar  while  the  reb  fusses  away  with 
some  pine  splinters  an'  lightwocd,  strugglin'  to 
inaug'rate  a  holycaust.  He  can't  make  the  landin'  ; 
them  timbers  is  too  green,  that  a-way. 

"  '  While  I'm  standin'  thar,  lendin'  myse'f  to  this 
yere  conflagratory  enterprise,  I  happens  to  cast 
my  eyes  over  on  the  hills  a  mile  back  from  the 
village,  an'  I'm  shocked  a  whole  lot  to  observe 
them  eminences  an*  summits  is  bloo  with  Yankees 
comin'.  Now  I'm  a  mighty  careful  boy,  an'  I 
don't  allow  none  to  let  a  ragin'  clanjamfrey  of 
them  Lincoln  hirelings  caper  up  on  me  while  I'm 
holdin'  a  reb  hoss.  So  I  calls  to  this  yere  incendiary 
trooper  where  he's  blowin'  an'  experimentin'  an' 
still  failin*  with  them  flames. 

"'"Secesh!"!  shouts;  "oh,  you-all  secesh ! 
You'd  a  mighty  sight  better  come  get  your  hoss,  or 
them  Yanks  who's  bulgin'  along  overyonder'll  spread 
your  hide  on  the  fence." 

"  '  This  reb  takes  a  look  at  the  Yanks,  an'  then 
comes  an'  gets  his  hoss.  As  he  gathers  up  the 
bridle  rein  an'  swings  into  the  saddle,  a  mad  thirst 
to  fight,  die  an'  bleed  for  my  country  seizes  me,  an* 
I  grabs  the  reb's  hoss  by  the  bits  an'  detains  him. 

"'"Say,  Mister,"  I  pleads,  "  why  can't  you-all 
take  me  with  you  ?  " 

" '  "  Which  you're  a  lot  too  young,  son,"  says  the 
reb,  takin'  another  size-up  of  the  Yanks. 

"  '  "  I  ain't  so  young  as  I  looks,"  I  argues ;  "  I'm 
jest  small  of  my  age." 

" ' u  Now,    I    reckons   that's  so,"   says    the    reb, 


Colonel  Sterett's  War  Record.  255 

beam  in'  on  me  approving  "an'  you're  likewise 
mighty  peart.  But  I'll  tell  you,  Bud,  you  ain't  got 
no  hoss." 

"  '  "  That's  nothin',"  I  responds  ;  "  which  if  you- 
all  will  only  get  me  a  gun,  I  can  steal  a  hoss,  that 
a-way,  in  the  first  mile." 

"  '  Seein'  me  so  ready  with  them  argyments,  att" 
so  dead  pertinacious  to  go,  this  yere  trooper 
begins  to  act  oneasy,  like  his  resolootion  gets  shook 
some.  At  last  he  gridds  his  teeth  together  like  his 
mind's  made  up. 

"  *  "  Look  yere,  boy,"  he  says,  "  do  you  know  who 
our  Gen'ral  is  ?  " 

"  '  "  No,"  I  says,  "  I  don't." 

" ' "  Well,"  says  the  reb,  as  he  shoves  his  feet 
deep  in  the  stirrups,  an'  settles  in  his  saddle  like 
he's  goin'  to  make  some  time;  "well,  he's  a  ragin* 
an'  enfettered  maverick,  named  Wheeler ;  an'  from 
the  way  he  goes  skallyhootin'  'round,  he's  goin' 
to  get  us  all  killed  or  captured  before  ever  we  gets 
back,  an'  I  don't  want  no  chil'en  on  my  hands." 

"  *  With  that  this  yere  soldier  yanks  the  bridle 
outen  my  grasp,  claps  the  steel  into  his  hoss's  flanks, 
an'  leaves  me  like  a  bullet  from  a  gun.  For  my 
part,  I  stands  thar  saved ;  saved,  as  I  says,  by  that 
Gen'ral  Wheeler's  repootation  with  his  men.' ' 


CHAPTER  XVII. 
Old  Man  Enrighf  s  Love. 

"  SON,  I'm  gettin'  plumb  alarmed  about  myse'f," 
observed  the  Old  Cattleman,  as  we  drew  together 
for  our  usual  talk.  "  I've  been  sort  o'  cog'tatin' 
tharof,  an'  I  begins  to  allow  I'm  a  mighty  sight 
too  garrulous  that  a-way.  This  yere  conversation 
habit  is  shore  growin*  on  me,  an',  if  I  don't  watch 
out,  I'm  goin'  to  be  a  bigger  talker  than  old  Vance 
Groggins," 

"  Was  Groggins  a  great  conversationist  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Does  this  yere  Vance  Groggins  converse  ? 
Which  I  wish  I  has  stored  by  a  pint  of  licker  for 
everythin'  Vance  says !  It  would,  be  a  long  spell 
before  ever  I'm  driven  to  go  ransackin'  'round  to 
find  one  of  them  life-savin'  stations,  called  by  com 
mon  consent,  a  '  s'loon ! '  This  Vance  don't  do 
nothin'  but  talk;  he's  got  that  much  to  say,  it  gets 
in  his  way.  Vance  comes  mighty  clost  to  gettin'  a 
heap  the  worst  of  it  once  merely  on  account  of 
them  powers  of  commoonication. 

"  You  see,  this  yere  Vance  is  a  broke-down  sport, 
an*  is  dealin'  faro-bank  for  Jess  Jenkins  over  on  the 
Canadian.  An'  Vance  jest  can't  resist  takin'  part 
in  every  conversation  that's  started.  Let  two  gents 


Old  Man  Enright's  Love*  257 

across  the  layout  go  to  exchangin'  views,  or  swappin* 
observations,  an'  you  can  gamble  that  Vance  comes 
jimmin'  along  in.  An'  Vance  is  allers  tellin'  about 
his  brother  Abe.  Does  a  gent  mention  that  he 
brands  eight  hundred  calves  that  spring  round-up, 
Vance  cuts  in  with  the  bluff  that  his  brother  Abe 
brands  twelve  hundred  ;  does  a  sport  su'gest  that 
he  sees  a  party  win  four  thousand  dollars  ag'in 
monte  or  roulette  or  faro  or  somesech  amoosement, 
Vance  gets  thar  prompt  with  some  ranikaboo  rela 
tions  of  a  time  when  his  brother  Abe  goes  ag'inst 
Whitey  Bob  at  Wichita,  makes  a  killin'  of  over 
sixty  thousand  dollars,  an'  breaks  the  bank. 

"  *  My  brother  Abe,'  says  this  yere  scand'lous 
Vance  that  a-way,  'jest  nacherally  wins  the  kyarpets 
off  Whitey  Bob's  floor.' 

"  Son,  it's  simple  egreegious  the  way  this  Vance 
carries  on  in  them  fool  rev'lations  touchin*  his 
brother  Abe. 

"  It  gets  so,  final,  that  a  passel  of  sports  lodges 
complaints  with  Jenkins.  'What's  the  use!'  says 
them  maddened  sports  to  Jenkins.  '  This  Vance 
don't  deal  faro-bank;  he  jest  don't  do  nothin'  but 
talk.  Thar  we  sets,  our  bets  on  the  layout,  an'  we 
don't  get  no  action.  This  Vance  won't  deal  a 
kyard  for  fear  we  don't  hear  about  that  brother 
Abe  Groggins  of  his'n.' 

4<  Them  criticisms  makes  Jenkins  plenty  quer'lous. 
He  rounds  Vance  up  an'  curries  him  a  whole  lot. 
Then  he  tells  Vance  to  pull  his  freight  ;  he  don't 
want  him  to  deal  faro-bank  for  him  no  more. 


Wolfville  Days* 

"  At  this,  Vance  turns  plumb  piteous,  an*  asks 
Jenkins  not  to  throw  him  loose,  that  a-way.  An' 
he  promises  to  re-organize  an'  alter  his  system. 
*  I  knows  my  failings,'  says  Vance  a  heap  mournful. 
4  You  don't  have  to  come  'round  tauntin'  me  with 
'em ;  I'm  dead  onto  'em  myse'f.  I'm  too  frank  an' 
I'm  too  sociable  ;  I'm  too  prone  to  regale  my  fellow 
gents  with  leafs  from  my  experience  ;  an*  I  realize, 
as  well  as  you  do,  Jenk,  it's  wrong.  Shorely,  I've 
no  right  to  stop  in  the  middle  of  a  deal  to  tell  a 
story  an'  force  the  hopes  an'  fears,  not  to  say  the 
fortunes,  of  a  half-dozen  intense  sports,  an'  some  of 
'em  in  the  hole  at  that,  to  wait  till  I  gets  through  ! 
I  know  it  ain't  right,  Jenk  ;  but  I  promises  you,  if 
you'll  let  me  go  behind  the  box  ag'in  to-night,  on 
the  honor  of  a  kyard  sharp,  you-all  will  never  hear 
a  yelp  outen  me  from  soda  to  hock.  An'  that's 
whatever ! ' 

" '  It  ain't  not  alone  that  you  talks  forever,' 
remonstrates  Jenkins;  *  but  it's  them  frightful  lies 
you  tells.  Which  they're  enough  to  onsettle  a 
gent's  play,  to  say  nothin'  of  runnin'  the  resk  of 
raisin'  a  hoodoo  an'  queerin'  my  bank.  But  I  tries 
you  once  more,  Vance ;  only  get  it  straight :  So 
shore  as  ever  you  takes  to  onloadin'  on  the  com- 
pany  one  of  them  exaggerations  about  that  felon 
Abe,  I  won't  say  "  Go,"  I'll  jest  onlimber  an'  burn 
the  moccasins  off  you  with  my  gun.' 

"  It's  that  very  night  ;  Vance  has  been  dealin' 
the  game  for  mighty  likely  it's  three  hours,  an'  no 
one  gets  a  verbal  rise  outen  him  more'n  if  he's  a 


Old  Man  Enright's  Love.  259 

graven  image.  Vance  is  gettin'  proud  of  himse'f, 
an'  Jenkins,  who  comes  prowlin'  'round  the  game 
at  times,  begins  to  reckon  mebby  Vance'll  do.  All 
goes  well  ontil  a  party  lets  fly  some  hyperbole 
about  a  tavern  he  strikes  in  Little  Rock,  which  for 
size  an'  extensif  characteristics  lays  over  anythin' 
on  earth  like  a  summer's  cloud. 

"  '  You  thinks  so  ?  '  says  Vance,  stoppin'  the  deal, 
an'  leanin'  a  elbow  on  the  box,  while  he  goes  pro- 
jectin*  towards  the  countenance  of  the  Little  Rock 
party  with  the  forefinger  of  his  other  hand,  kind  o' 
claimin' his  attention.  'You  thinks  so!  I  allows 
now  you-all  reckons  that  for  a  hotel,  this  yere  Little 
Rock  edifice  is  the  old  he-coon  !  Let  me  tell  you 
somethin' :  My  brother  Abe  goes  out  to  one  of 
them  bathin'  camps,  swept  by  ocean  breezes,  on  the 
Pacific  slope,  an'  you  should  shorely  oughter  behold 
the  joint  he  slams  up  !  Pards,  thar's  more  than 
two  thousand  rooms  in  that  wickeyup  !  It's  'leven 
hundred  an*  twelve  foot  high,  four  thousand  two 

hundred  an*  fifty-four  foot  long,  an* '  It's  here 

pore  Vance  catches  Jenkins*  eye  glarin'  on  him 
hard  an'  remorseless — '  an'  twenty  foot  wide,'  says 
Vance,  a  heap  hurried,  dashin*  the  kyards  outen  the 
box.  '  Five  lose,  jack  win,*  concloodes  Vance  con- 
foosedly,  makin*  a  hasty  change  of  subjects. 

"Yes,  indeed!"  and  the  old  gentleman  looked 
thoughtfully  across  the  lawn  as  he  wound  up  his 
tale  of  the  unfortunate  Groggins,  "  Yes,  indeed  ! 
If  I  keeps  on  talkin*  away,  I'll  become  a  laughin'- 
stock,  same  as  that  locoed  Vance  !  Thar's  one 


260  Wolfville  Days* 

matter  that  allers  imbues  me  with  a  heap  of  respect 
for  deef  an'  dumb  folks ;  which  they  shorely  do 
keep  things  to  themse'fs  a  whole  lot." 

It  was  fifteen  minutes  before  I  could  convince 
my  friend  that  his  Wolfville  stories  in  no  sort 
diminished  his  dignity.  Also,  I  reminded  him  of  a 
promise  to  one  day  tell  me  of  Enright's  one  affair 
of  love  ;  plainly  his. bond  in  that  should  be  fulfilled. 
At  last  he  gave  way,  and  after  commanding  the 
coming  of  a  favorite  and  highly  refreshing  beverage, 
held  forth  as  follows  : 

"  It's  never  been  my  beliefs,"  he  said,  "  that  Sam 
Enright  would  have  dipped  into  them  old  love 
concerns  of  his  if  he'd  been  himse'f.  Enright's  sick 
at  the  time.  Shore  !  he  ain't  sick  to  the  p'int  of 
bein'  down  in  his  blankets,  an'  is  still  meanderin' 
'round  the  camp  as  dooty  dictates  or  his  interest 
calls,  but  he's  plenty  ailin'  jest  the  same.  Thar's 
the  roodiments  of  a  dispoote  between  Doc  Peets 
an'  Enright  as  to  why  his  health  that  time  is  bog- 
gin'  down.  Peets  puts  it  up  it's  a  over-accoomula- 
tion  of  alkali;  Enright  allows  it's  because  he's  born 
so  long  ago.  Peets  has  his  way,  however,  bein'  a 
scientist  that  a-way,  an*  takes  possession  of  the 
case. 

"  No,  it  ain't  them  maladies  that  so  weakens 
Enright  he  lapses  into  confidences  about  his 
early  love ;  but  you  see,  son,  Peets  stops  his  nose- 
paint ;  won't  let  him  drink  so  much  as  a  drop ;  an' 
bein'  cut  off  short  on  nourishment  like  I  says,  it 
makes  Enright — at  least  so  I  allers  figgers — some 


Old  Man  Enright's  Love.  261 

childish  an'  light-headed.  That's  right ;  you  remove 
that  good  old  Valley  Tan  from  the  menu  of  a  party 
who's  been  adherin'  an'  referrin'  to  it  year  after 
year  for  mighty  likely  all  his  days,  an'  it  sort  o* 
takes  the  stiffenin'  outen  his  dignity  a  lot ;  he 
begins  to  onbend  an'  wax  easy  an'  confidenshul. 
Is  seems  then  like  he  goes  about  cravin'  counte 
nance  an'  support.  An'  down  onder  my  belt,  it 
strikes  me  at  the  time,  an*  it  shore  strikes  me  yet, 
that  ravishin*  the  canteen  from  Enright,  nacherally 
enfeebles  him  an*  sets  him  to  talkin'  an  tellin'  of 
past  days.  Oh,  he  don't  keep  up  this  yere  onhealth- 
ful  abstinence  forever.  Peets  declar's  Enright 
removed  from  danger,  an*  asks  him  to  drink,  himse'f, 
inside  of  two  weeks. 

" '  Where  a  gent,'  says  Peets,  elab'ratin'  this  yere 
theery  of  not  drinkin'  none,  *  has  been  crookin'  his 
elbow  constant,  an'  then  goes  wrong,  bodily,  it's  a 
great  play  to  stop  his  nose-paint  abrupt.  It's  a 
shock  to  him,  same  as  a  extra  ace  in  a  poker  deck  ; 
an'  when  a  gent  is  ill,  shocks  is  what  he  needs.' 

"  '  But  let  me  savey  about  this/  says  Dan  Boggs, 
who's  allers  a  heap  inquis'tive  an'  searchin'  after 
knowledge ;  '  do  you-all  impose  this  onwonted 
sobriety  as  a  penalty,  or  do  you  make  the  play  mee- 
dic'nal?' 

"  *  Meedic'nal,'  says  Peets.  *  In  extreme  cases, 
sobriety  is  plenty  cooratif.' 

"  Does  Enright  bow  to  Doc  Peets'  demands  about 
no  whiskey  that  a-way  ?  Son,  Peets  is  plumb 
inex'rable  about  them  prescriptions  of  his.  He 


262  Wolfville  Days* 

looks  on  the  mildest  argyment  ag'in  'em  as  personal 
affronts.  Peets  is  the  most  immov'ble  sharp, 
medical,  that  ever  I  crosses  up  with  ;  an*  when  it 
comes  to  them  prescriptions,  the  recklessest  sport 
in  Arizona  lays  down  his  hand. 

"  Once  I  knows  Peets  to  pass  on  the  failin*  con 
dition  of  a  tenderfoot  who's  bunked  in  an*  allows 
he'll  die  a  lot  over  to  the  O.  K.  Restauravv.  Peets 
decides  this  yere  shorthorn  needs  abstinence  from 
licker.  Peets  breaks  the  news  to  the  onhappy  vic 
tim,  an*  puts  him  on  water  till  the  crisis  shall  be 
past.  Also,  Peets  notified  the  Red  Light  not  to 
heed  any  requests  of  this  party  in  respects  to  said 
nose-paint. 

"  It  turns  out  this  sick  person,  honin*  for  licker  as 
is  plumb  nacheral,  forgets  himse'f  as  a  gent  an'  sort 
o'  reckons  he'll  get  fraudulent  with  Peets.  He 
riggers  he'll  jest  come  Injunin'  into  the  Red  Light, 
quil  himse'f  about  a  few  drinks  surreptitious,  an' 
then  go  trackin*  back  to  his  blankets,  an*  Doc  Peets 
none  the  wiser.  So,  like  I  says,  this  yere  ill  person 
fronts  softly  up  to  the  Red  Light  bar  an'  calls  for 
Valley  Tan. 

"Black  Jack,  the  barkeep,  don't  know  this  party 
from  a  cross-L  steer ;  he  gets  them  mandates  from 
Peets,  but  it  never  does  strike  Black  Jack  that  this 
yere  is  the  dyin'  sport  allooded  to.  In  darkness 
that  a-way,  Black  Jack  tosses  a  glass  on  the  bar  an* 
shoves  the  bottle.  It  shore  looks  like  that  failin' 
shorthorn  is  goin'  to  quit  winner,  them  recooperatifs. 

"  But,  son,  he*s  interrupted.     He's  filled  his  glass 


Old  Man  Enright's  Love.  263 

— an*  he's  been  plenty  free  about  it — an'  stands 
thar  with  the  bottle  in  his  hand,  when  two  guns 
bark,  an'  one  bullet  smashes  the  glass  an'  the  other 
the  bottle  where  this  person  is  holdin'  it.  No,  this 
artillery  practice  don't  stampede  me  none;  I'm 
plumb  aware  it's  Doc  Peets'  derringers  from  the 
go-off.  Peets  stands  in  the  door,  one  of  his  little 
pup-guns  in  each  hand. 

"  '  Which  I  likes  your  aplomb  ! '  says  Black  Jack 
to  Peets,  as  he  swabs  off  the  bar  in  a  peevish  way. 
'  I  makes  it  my  boast  that  I'm  the  best-nachered 
barkeep  between  the  Colorado  an'  the  Rio  Grande, 
an'  yet  I'm  free  to  confess,  sech  plays  chafes  me. 
May  I  ask,'  an'  Black  Jack  stops  wipin'  the  bar  an' 
turns  on  Peets  plumb  p'lite,  '  what  your  idee  is  in 
thus  shootin'  your  way  into  a  commercial  affair  in 
which  you  has  no  interest  ?  ' 

"  '  This  yere  bibulous  person  is  my  patient/  says 
Peets,  a  heap  haughty.  'I  preescribes  no  licker; 
an'  them  preescriptions  is  goin'  to  be  filled,  you 
bet !  if  I  has  to  fill  'em  with  a  gun.  Whatever 
do  you-all  reckon  a  medical  practitioner  is?  Do 
you  figger  he's  a  Mexican,  an'  that  his  diagnosises, 
that  a-way,  don't  go?  I  notifies  you  this  mornin* 
as  I  stands  yere  gettin'  my  third  drink,  that  if  this 
outcast  comes  trackin'  in  with  demands  for  nose- 
paint,  to  remember  he's  sick  an'  throw  him  out  on 
his  head.  An'  yere's  how  I'm  obeyed  !  ' 

"Which,  of  course,  this  explains  things  to  Black 
Jack,  an'  he  sees  his  inadvertences.  He  comes  out 
from  behind  the  bar  to  where  this  sick  maverick 


264  Wolfville  Days. 

has  done  fainted  in  the  confoosion,  an'  collars  him 
an*  sets  him  on  a  cha'r. 

" '  Doc,'  says  Black  Jack,  when  he's  got  the 
wilted  gent  planted  firm  an'  safe,  '  I  tenders  my  re 
grets.  Havin'  neither  brands  nor  y'earmarks  to 
guide  by,  I  never  recognizes  this  person  as  your 
invalid  at  all  ;  none  whatever.  I'd  shore  bent  a  gun 
on  him  an'  harassed  him  back  into  his  lair,  as  you 
requests,  if  I  suspects  his  identity.  To  show  I'm 
on  the  squar',  Doc,  I'll  do  this  party  any  voylence, 
even  at  this  late  hour,  which  you  think  will  make 
amends.' 

"  '  Your  apol'gy  is  accepted,'  says  Peets,  but  still 
haughty ;  '  I  descerns  how  you  gets  maladroit 
through  errors  over  which  you  has  no  control.  As 
to  this  person,  who's  so  full  of  stealthy  cunnin',  he's 
all  right.  So  long  as  he  don't  get  no  licker,  no  voy 
lence  is  called  for  in  his  case/  An'  with  that  Peets 
conducts  his  patient,  who's  come  to  ag'in,  back  to 
his  reservation. 

"  But  I  onbuckles  this  afternoon  to  tell  you-all 
about  Old  Man  Enright's  early  love,  an'  if  I  aims  to 
make  the  trip  before  the  moon  comes  up,  I  better 
hit  the  trail  of  them  reminiscences  an'  no  further 
delays. 

"  It's  in  the  back  room  of  the  New  York  Store 
where  the  casks  be,  an'  Enright,  on  whose  nerves 
an'  sperits  Peets'  prescriptions  of  '  no  licker '  has 
been  feedin'  for  two  full  days,  sits  tharsort  o'  fidgin' 
with  his  fingers  an'  movin'  his  feet  in  a  way  which 
shows  he's  a  heap  on  aige.,  Thar's  a  melancholy 


Old  Man  Enright's  Love.  265 

settles  on  us  all,  as  we  camps  'round  on  crates  an1 
shoe  boxes  an'  silently  sympathizes  with  Enright  to 
see  him  so  redooced.  At  last  the  grand  old  chief 
starts  in  to  talk  without  questions  or  requests. 

"  '  If  you-all  don't  mind,'  says  Enright,  '  I'll  let  go 
a  handful  of  mem'ries  touchin'  my  yooth.  Thar's 
nothin'  like  maladies  to  make  a  gent  sentimental, 
onless  it  be  gettin'  shot  up  or  cut  up  with  bullets  or 
bowies ;  an'  these  yere  visitations,  which  Peets 
thinks  is  alkali  an'  I  holds  is  the  burdens  of  them 
years  of  mine,  shore  leaves  me  plumb  romantic. 

" '  Which  I've  been  thinkin'  all  day,  between 
times  when  I'm  thinkin'  of  licker,  of  Polly  Hawks ; 
an'  I'll  say  right  yere  she's  my  first  an'  only  love. 
She's  a  fine  young  female,  is  Polly — tall  as  a  saplin', 
with  a  arm  on  her  like  a  cant-hook.  Polly  can  lift 
an'  hang  up  a  side  of  beef,  an'  is  as  good  as  two 
hands  at  a  log-rollin'. 

"  *  This  yere's  back  in  old  Tennessee  on  the  banks 
of  the  Cumberland.  It's  about  six  years  followin' 
on  the  Mexican  war,  an'  I'm  shot  up'ards  into  the 
semblances  of  a  man.  My  affections  for  Polly  has 
their  beginnin's  in  a  coon-hunt  into  which  b'ars  an* 
dogs  gets  commingled  in  painful  profoosion. 

"  *  I  ain't  the  wonder  of  a  week  with  a  rifle  now, 
since  I'm  old  an'  dim,  but  them  times  on  the  Cum 
berland  I  has  fame  as  sech.  More'n  once,  ag'inst 
the  best  there  is  in  either  the  Cumberland  or  the 
Tennessee  bottoms,  or  on  the  ridge  between,  I've 
won  as  good  as,  say,  first,  second  and  fifth  quarters 
in  a  shoot  for  the  beef.' 


266  Wolfville  Days, 

" '  Whatever  do  you-all  call  a  fifth  quarter  of 
beef  ?  '  asks  Dan  Boggs.  '  Four  quarters  is  all  I'm 
ever  able  to  count  to  the  anamile.' 

" '  It's  yooth  an'  inexperience/  says  Enright, 
*  that  prompts  them  queries.  The  fifth  quarter  is  the 
hide  an'  tallow ;  an'  also  thar's  a  sixth  quarter,  the 
same  bein'  the  bullets  in  the  stump  which  makes 
the  target,  an'  which  is  dug  out  a  whole  lot,  lead 
bein'  plenty  infrequent  in  them  days  I'm  dreamin' 
of. 

"  *  As  I'm  sayin',  when  Dan  lams  loose  them  thick 
head  questions,  I'm  a  renowned  shot,  an'  my 
weakness  is  huntin'  b'ars.  I  finds  'em  an'  kills  'em 
that  easy,  I  thinks  thar's  nothin'  in  the  world  but 
b'ars.  An' when  I  ain't  huntin'  b'ars,  I'm  layin'  for 
deer;  an'  when  I  ain't  layin'  for  deer,  I'm  squaw- 
kin'  turkeys;  an'  when  I  ain't  squawkin'  turkeys, 
I'm  out  nights  with  a  passel  of  misfit  dogs  I  harbors, 
a  shakin'  up  the  scenery  for  raccoons.  Altogether, 
I'm  some  busy  as  you-all  may  well  infer. 

"  *  One  night  I'm  coon  huntin'.  The  dogs  trees 
over  on  Rapid  Run.  When  I  arrives,  the  whole 
pack  is  cirkled  'round  the  base  of  a  big  beech, 
singin'  ;  my  old  Andrew  Jackson  dog  leadin'  the 
choir  with  the  air,  an'  my  Thomas  Benton  dog 
growlin'  bass,  while  the  others  warbles  what  parts 
they  will,  indiscrim'nate. 

"  '  Nacherally,  the  dogs  can't  climb  the  tree  none, 
an'  I  has  to  make  that  play  myse'f.  I  lays  down  my 
gun,  an'  shucks  my  belts  an'  knife,  an'  goes  swarmin' 
up  the  beech.  It's  shorely  a  teedious  enterprise, 


Old  Man  Enrigiit's  Love.  267 

an'  some  rough  besides.  That  beech  seems  as  full 
of  spikes  an'  thorns  as  a  honey  locust — its  a  sort  o' 
porkypine  of  a  tree. 

" '  Which  I  works  my  lacerated  way  into  the 
lower  branches,  an'  then  glances  up  ag'in  the  firma 
ments  to  locate  the  coon.  He  ain't  vis'ble  none; 
he's  higher  up  an'  the  leaves  an'  bresh  hides  him. 
I  goes  on  till  I'm  twenty  foot  from  the  ground  ; 
then  I  looks  up  ag'in. 

"  '  Gents,  it  ain't  no  coon  ;  it's  a  b'ar,  black  as  paint 
an'  as  big  as  a  baggage  wagon.  He  ain't  two  foot 
above  me  too  ;  an'  the  sight  of  him,  settin'  thar  like  a 
black  bale  of  cotton,  an'  his  nearness,  an'  partic'larly 
a  few  terse  remarks  he  lets  drop,  comes  mighty 
clost  to  astonishin'  me  to  death.  I  thinks  of  my 
gun  ;  an'  then  I  lets  go  all  holts  to  go  an'  get  it. 
Shore,  I  falls  outen  the  tree  ;  thar  ain't  no  time  to 
descend  slow  an'  dignified. 

"  '  As  I  comes  crashin'  along  through  them  beech 
boughs,  it  inculcates  a  misonderstandin'  among 
the  dogs.  Andrew  Jackson,  Thomas  Benton  an' 
the  others  is  convoked  about  that  tree  on  a  purely 
coon  theery.  They  expects  me  to  knock  the  coon 
down  to  'em.  They  shorely  do  not  expect  me 
to  come  tumblin*  none  myse'f.  It  tharfore  befalls 
that  when  I  makes  my  deboo  among  'em,  them 
canines,  blinded  an'  besotted  as  I  say  with  thoughts 
of  coon,  prounces  upon  me  in  a  body.  Every 
dog  rends  off  a  speciment  of  me.  They  don't  bite 
twice ;  they  perceives  by  the  taste  that  it  ain't  no 
coon  an*  desists. 


268  Wolfville  Days. 

" '  Which  I  don't  reckon  their  worryin'  me  would 
have  become  a  continyoous  performance  nohow  ; 
for  me  an*  the  dogs  is  hardly  tangled  up  that  a-wayf 
when  we're  interfered  with  by  the  b'ar.  Looks  like 
the  example  I  sets  is  infectious ;  for  when  I  lets  go, 
the  b'ar  lets  go  ;  an'  I  hardly  hits  the  ground  an* 
becomes  the  ragin'  center  of  interest  to  Andrew 
Jackson,  Thomas  Benton  an'  them  others,  when  the 
b'ar  is  down  on  all  of  us  like  the  old  Cumberland  on 
a  sandbar  doorin'  a  spring  rise.  I  shore  regyards 
his  advent  that  a-way  as  the  day  of  jedgment. 

"  '  No,  we  don't  corral  him.  The  b'ar  simply  r'ars 
back  long  enough  to  put  Andrew  Jackson  an' 
Thomas  Benton  into  mournin',  an'  then  goes  scut- 
tlin'  off  through  the  bushes  like  the  grace  of  heaven 
through  a  camp-meetin'.  As  for  myse'f,  I  lays  thar  ; 
an'  what  between  dog  an'  b'ar  an'  the  fall  I  gets, 
I'm  as  completely  a  thing  of  the  past  as  ever  finds 
refooge  in  that  strip  of  timber.  As  near  as  I  makes 
out  by  feelin'  of  myse'f,  I  ain't  fit  to  make  gourds 
out  of.  Of  course,  she's  a  mistake  on  the  part  of 
the  dogs,  an'  plumb  accidental  as  far  as  the  b'ar's 
concerned ;  but  it  shore  crumples  me  up  as  entirely 
as  if  this  yere  outfit  of  anamiles  plots  the  play  for 
a  month. 

"  '  With  the  last  flicker  of  my  failin'  strength,  I 
crawls  to  my  old  gent's  teepee  an*  is  took  in.  An* 
you  shore  should  have  heard  the  language  of  that 
household  when  they  sees  the  full  an*  awful  extent 
them  dogs  an'  that  b'ar  lays  me  waste.  Which  I'm 
layed  up  eight  weeks. 


Old  Man  Enright's  Love.  269 

" '  My  old  gent  goes  grumblin'  off  in  the  mornin', 
an*  rounds  up  old  Aunt  Tilly  Hawks  to  nurse  me. 
Old  Aunt  Tilly  lives  over  on  the  Painted  Post,  an' 
is  plumb  learned  in  yarbs  an'  sech  as  Injun  turnips, 
opydeldock,  live-forever,  skoke-berry  roots,  jinson 
an'  whitewood  bark.  An'  so  they  ropes  up  Aunt 
Tilly  Hawks  an'  tells  her  to  ride  herd  on  my  wounds 
an'  dislocations. 

" '  But  I'm  plumb  weak  an*  nervous  an'  can't  stand 
Aunt  Tilly  none.  She  ain't  got  no  upper  teeth, 
same  as  a  cow,  her  face  is  wrinkled  like  a  burnt  boot, 
an'  she  dips  snuff.  Moreover,  she  gives  me  the 
horrors  by  allers  singin'  in  a  quaverin'  way : 

"  «  Hark  from  the  tombs  a  doleful  sound, 
Mine  y'ears  attend  the  cry. 
Ye  Hvin'  men  come  view  the  ground 
Where  you  shall  shortly  lie. 

"  '  Aunt  Tilly  sounds  a  heap  like  a  tea-kettle  when 
she's  renderm'  this  yere  madrigal,  an'  that,  an'  the 
words,  an'  all  the  rest,  makes  me  gloomy  an' 
dejected.  I'm  shore  pinin'  away  onder  these  yere 
malign  inflooences,  when  my  old  gent  notes  I  ain't 
recooperatin',  an'  so  he  guesses  the  cause  ;  an*  with 
that  he  gives  Aunt  Tilly  a  lay-off,  an'  tells  her  to 
send  along  her  niece  Polly  to  take  her  place. 

"  *  Thar's  a  encouragin'  difference.  Polly  is  big 
an'  strong  like  I  states  ;  but  her  eyes  is  like  stars, 
an'  she's  as  full  of  sweetness  as  a  bee  tree  or  a  bar'l 
of  m'lasses.  So  Polly  camps  down  by  my  couch  of 
pain  an'  begins  dallyin*  soothin'ly  with  my  heated 


*7o  Wolfville  Days. 

brow.     I  commences  recoverin'  from  them  attacks 
of  b'ars  an'  dogs  instanter. 

"  *  This  yere  Polly  Hawks  ain't  none  new  to  me. 
I  never  co'ts  her;  but  I  meets  her  frequent  at  barn 
raisin's  an*  quiltin's,  which  allers  winds  up  in  a 
dance  ;  an*  in  them  games  an'  merriments,  sech  as 
"  bowin*  to  the  wittiest,  kneelin'  to  the  prettiest, 
an'  kissin'  the  one  you  loves  the  best,"  I  more  than 
once  regyards  Polly  as  an  alloorin'  form  of  hooman 
hollyhock,  an*  selects  her.  But  thar's  no  flush  of 
burnin'  love  ;  nothin'  more  than  them  amiable  for 
malities  which  befits  the  o'casion. 

"  '  While  this  yere  Polly  is  nursin'  me,  however, 
she  takes  on  a  different  attitoode  a  whole  lot.  It 
looks  like  I  begins  to  need  her  permanent,  an'  every 
time  I  sets  my  eyes  on  her  I  feels  as  soft  as  b'ar's 
grease.  It's  shorely  love ;  that  Polly  Hawks  is  as 
sweet  an'  luscious  as  a  roast  apple/ 

" '  Is  she  for  troo  so  lovely  ?  '  asks  Faro  Nell, 
who's  been  hangin'  onto  Enright's  words. 

"  '  Frankly,  Nellie,'  says  Enright,  sort  o'  pinchin' 
down  his  bluff  ;  '  now  that  I'm  ca'mer  an*  my  blood  is 
cool,  this  yere  Polly  don't  seem  so  plumb  prismatic. 
Still,  I  must  say,  she's  plenty  radiant/ 

"  '  Does  you-all,'  says  Dan  Boggs,  '  put  this  yere 
Polly  in  nom'nation  to  be  your  wife  while  you're 
quiled  up  sick  ?  ' 

"  *  No,  I  defers  them  offers  to  moments  when  I'm 
more  robust/  says  Enright. 

"  '  You  shore  oughter  rode  at  her  while  you're  sick 
that  a-way,'  remonstrates  Boggs.  '  That's  the  time 


Old  Man  Enright's  Love*  271 

to  set  your  stack  down.  Females  is  easy  moved  to 
pity,  an',  as  I've  heared — for  I've  nothin'  to  go  by, 
personal,  since  I'm  never  married  an'  is  never  sick 
none — is  a  heap  more  prone  to  wed  a  gent  who's 
sick,  than  when  he's  well  a  lot.' 

"  *  I  holds  them  doctrines  myse'f,'  observes 
Enright ;  '  however,  I  don't  descend  on  Polly  with 
no  prop'sitions,  neither  then  nor  final,  as  you-all 
shall  hear,  Dan,  if  you'll  only  hold  yourse'f  down. 
No,  I  continyoos  on  lovin'  Polly  to  myse'f  that 
a-way,  ontil  I'm  able  to  go  pokin'  about  on  crutches  ; 
an'  then,  as  thar's  no  more  need  of  her  ministra 
tions,  Polly  lines  out  for  old  Aunt  Tilly's  cabin 
ag'in. 

"  '  It's  at  this  yere  juncture  things  happens  which 
sort  o'  complicates  them  dreams  of  mine.  While  I 
ain't  been  sayin'  nothin',  an'  has  been  plumb  reti 
cent  as  to  my  feelin's,  jest  the  same,  by  look  or  act, 
or  mebby  it's  a  sigh,  I  tips  off  my  hand.  It  ain't 
no  time  before  all  the  neighbors  is  aware  of  my  love 
for  Polly  Hawks.  Also,  this  Polly  has  a  lover  who 
it  looks  like  has  been  co'tin'  her,  an'  bringin'  her 
mink  pelts  an*  wild  turkeys  indeescrim'nate,  for 
months.  I  never  do  hear  of  this  gent  ontil  I'm 
cripplin'  'round  on  them  stilts  of  crutches;  an'  then 
I  ain't  informed  of  him  none  only  after  he's  informed 
of  me. 

"  '  Thar's  a  measley  little  limberjaw  of  a  party 
whose  name  is  Ike  Sparks;  this  Ike  is  allers  runnin* 
about  tellin'  things  an'  settin'  traps  to  capture 
trouble  for  other  folks.  Ike  is  a  ornery  anamile — 


272  Wolf vf lie  Days* 

little  an'  furtif — mean  enough  to  suck  aigs,  an'  cun< 
nin'  enough  to  hide  the  shells.  He  hates  every- 
body,  this  Ike  does  ;  an*  he's  as  suspicious  as  Bill 
Johnson's  dog,  which  last  is  that  doubtful  an'  sus 
picious  he  shore  walks  sideways  all  his  life  for  fear 
someone's  goin'  to  kick  him.  This  low-down  Ike 
imparts  to  Polly's  other  lover  about  the  state  of  my 
feelin's;  an'  then  it  ain't  no  time  when  I  gets  notice 
of  this  sport's  existence. 

"  *  It's  in  the  licker  room  of  the  tavern  at  Pine 
Knot,  to  which  scenes  I've  scrambled  on  them 
crutches  one  evenin',  where  this  party  first  meets 
up  with  me  in  person.  He's  a  big,  tall  citizen  with 
lanky,  long  ha'r,  an'  is  dressed  in  a  blanket  huntin* 
shirt  an'  has  a  coon-skin  cap  with  the  tail  hangin' 
over  his  left  y'ear.  Also,  he  packs  a  Hawkins 
rifle,  bullets  about  forty  to  the  pound.  For  my- 
se'f,  I  don't  get  entranced  none  with  this  person's 
looks,  an'  as  I  ain't  fit,  physical,  for  no  skrimmage, 
I  has  to  sing  plumb  low. 

" '  Thar's  a  band  of  us  settin'  'round  when  this 
lover  of  Polly's  shows  in  the  door,  drinkin'  an* 
warblin'  that  entertainin'  ditty,  which  goes: 

"  '  "  Thar  sits  a  dog,  by  a  barn  door, 
An*  Bingo  is  his  name,  O  ! 
An'  Bingo  is  his  name." 

" '  As  Polly's  other  beau  comes  in,  we  ceases  this 
refrain.  He  pitches  his  rifle  to  the  landlord  over 
the  bar,  an'  calls  for  a  Baldface  whiskey  toddy. 
He  takes  four  or  five  drinks,  contemplatin'  us  mean- 


Old  Man  Enright's  Love.  273 

while  a  heap  disdainful.  Then  he  arches  his  back, 
bends  his  elbows,  begins  a  war-song,  an'  goes  dancin' 
stiff-laig  like  a  Injun,  in  front  of  the  bar.  This  is 
how  this  extravagant  party  sings.  It's  what  Col 
onel  Sterett,  yere,  to  whom  I  repeats  it  former, 
calls  "  blanket  verse." 

"  '  "  Let  all  the  sons  of  men  b'ar  witness !  "  sings 
this  gent,  as  he  goes  skatin'  stiff-laig  about  in  a 
ring  like  I  relates,  arms  bent,  an'  back  arched  ;  "  let 
all  the  sons  of  men  b'ar  witness  ;  an'  speshully  let 
a  cowerin' varmint,  named  Sam  Enright,  size  me  up 
an'  shudder!  I'm  the  maker  of  deserts  an'  the 
wall-eyed  harbinger  of  desolation  !  I'm  kin  to  rat 
tlesnakes  on  my  mother's  side  ;  I'm  king  of  all 
the  eagles  an' full  brother  to  the  b'ars !  I'm  the 
bloo-eyed  lynx  of  Whiskey  Crossin',  an'  I  weighs 
four  thousand  pounds  !  I'm  a  he-steamboat ;  I've 
put  a  crimp  in  a  cat-a-mount  with  nothin'  but  my 
livin'  hands  !  I  broke  a  full-grown  allagator  across 
my  knee,  tore  him  asunder  an'  showered  his  shrink- 
in'  fragments  over  a  full  section  of  land  !  I  hugged 
a  cinnamon  b'ar  to  death,  an'  made  a  grizzly  plead 
for  mercy  !  Who'll  come  gouge  with  me  ?  Who'll 
come  bite  with  me  ?  Who'll  come  put  his  knuckles 
in  my  back?  I'm  Weasel-eye,  the  dead  shot;  I'm 
the  blood-drinkin',  skelp-t'arin',  knife-plyin'  demon 
of  Sunflower  Creek  !  The  flash  of  my  glance  will 
deaden  a  whiteoak,  an'  my  screech  in  anger  will 
back  the  panther  plumb  off  his  natif  heath !  I'm 
a  slayer  an'  a  slaughterer,  an'  I  cooks  an'  eats  my 
dead  !  I  can  wade  the  Cumberland  without  wettin' 


274  Wolfville  Days* 

myse'f,  an'  I  drinks  outen  the  spring  without  touch* 
in*  the  ground  !  I'm  a  swinge-cat ;  but  I  warns  you 
not  to  be  misled  by  my  looks  !  I'm  a  flyin'  bison, 
an'  deevastation  rides  upon  my  breath  !  Whoop  ! 
whoop  !  whoopee !  I'm  the  Purple  Blossom  of 
Gingham  Mountain,  an'  where  is  that  son  of  thun 
der  who'll  try  an'  nip  me  in  the  bud  !  Whoop  ! 
whoopee!  I'm  yere  to  fight  or  drink  with  any 
sport ;  ary  one  or  both  !  Whoopee  !  Where  is 
the  stately  stag  to  stamp  his  hoof  or  rap  his  antlers 
to  my  proclamations !  Where  is  that  boundin' 
buck  !  Whoopee  !  whoop  !  whoop  !  " 

"  '  Then  this  yere  vociferous  Purple  Blossom 
pauses  for  breath  ;  but  keeps  up  his  stilt-laig  dance, 
considerin'  me  meanwhile  with  his  eye,  plenty  bale 
ful.  We-all  on  our  parts  is  viewin'  him  over  a  heap 
respectful,  an'  ain't  retortin'  a  word.  Then  he  be 
gins  ag'in  with  a  yelp  that  would  stampede  a  field 
of  corn. 

"  '  "  Who  is  thar  lovelier  than  Polly  Hawks  !  "  he 
shouts.  "  Show  me  the  female  more  entrancing  an* 
let  me  drop  dead  at  her  feet !  Who  is  lovelier 
than  Polly  Hawks,  the  sweetheart  of  Flyin'  Bison, 
the  onchained  tornado  of  the  hills  !  Feast  your 
gaze  on  Polly  Hawks ;  her  beauty  would  melt  the 
heart  of  Nacher  !  I'm  the  Purple  Blossom  of  Ging 
ham  Mountain  ;  Polly  Hawks  shall  marry  an'  follow 
me  to  my  wigwam  !  Her  bed  shall  be  of  b'ar-skins  ; 
her  food  shall  be  yearlin'  venison,  an'  wild  honey 
from  the  tree !  Her  gown  shall  be  panther's  pelts 
fringed  'round  with  wolf-tails  an'  eagles'  claws] 


Old  Man  Ennght's  Love*  275 

She  shall  belt  herse'f  with  a  rattlesnake,  an'  her 
Sunday  bonnet  shall  be  a  swarm  pi  bees !  When  I 
kiss  her  it  sounds  like  the  crack  of  a  whip,  an'  I 
wouldn't  part  with  her  for  twenty  cows  !  We  will 
wed  an'  pop'late  the  earth  with  terror !  Where  is 
the  sooicide  who'll  stand  in  my  way?  " 

"  *  At  this  p'int  the  Purple  Blossom  leaves  off 
dancin'  an'  fronts  up  to  me,  personal. 

"*  "  Whoopee  !"  he  says;  "  say  that  you  don't 
love  the  girl  an'  I'll  give  you  one  hundred  dollars 
before  I  spills  your  life  !  " 

"  '  Which,  of  course,  all  these  yere  moosical  an' 
terpshicoreen  preeliminaries  means  simply  so  much 
war  between  me  an'  this  sperited  beau  of  Polly's,  to 
see  who'll  own  the  lady's  heart.  I  explains  that 
I'm  not  jest  then  fit  for  combat,  sufferin'  as  I  be 
from  that  overabundance  of  dog  an'  b'ar.  The  Pur 
ple  Blossom  is  plumb  p'lite,  an'  says  he  don't  hun 
ger  to  whip  no  cripples.  Then  he  names  a  day  two 
months  away  when  he  allows  he'll  shore  descend 
from  Gingham  Mountain,  melt  me  down  an'  run 
me  into  candles  to  burn  at  the  weddin'  of  him  an' 
Polly  Hawks.  Then  we  drinks  together,  all  frater 
nal,  an'  he  gives  me  a  chew  of  tobacco  outen  a  box 
made  of  the  head  of  a  bald  eagle,  in  token  of  amity, 
that  a-way. 

"  *  But  that  rumpus  between  the  Purple  Blossom 
an'  me  never  does  come  off ;  an'  them  rites  over 
me  an'  Polly  is  indef'nitely  postponed.  The  fact 
is,  I  has  to  leave  a  lot.  I  starts  out  to  commit  a 
joke,  an'  it  turns  out  a  crime  ;  an'  so  I  goes  streak- 


276  Wolfville  Days. 

in'  it  from  the  scenes  of  my  yoothful  frolics  for 
safer  stampin*  grounds. 

" '  It's  mebby  six  weeks  followin'  them  declara 
tions  of  the  Purple  Blossom.  It's  co't  day  at  War- 
whoop  Crossin',  an'  the  Jedge  an'  every  law-sharp 
on  that  circuit  comes  trailin'  into  camp.  This  yere 
outfit  of  Warwhoop  is  speshul  fretful  ag'inst  all 
forms  of  gamblin'.  Wherefore  the  Jedge,  an'  the 
state's  attorney,  an'  mebby  five  other  speculators, 
at  night  adjourns  to  the  cabin  of  a  flat-boat  which 
is  tied  up  at  the  foot  of  the  levee,  so's  they  can  di 
vert  themse'fs  with  a  little  draw-poker  without 
shockin'  the  hamlet  an'  gettin'  themse'fs  arrested 
an'  fined  some. 

"  *  It's  gone  to  about  fourth  drink  time  after  sup 
per,  an'  I'm  romancin'  about,  tryin'  to  figger  out 
how  I'm  to  win  Polly,  when  as  I'm  waltzin'  along 
the  levee — I'm  plumb  alone,  an'  the  town  itse'f  has 
turned  into  its  blankets — I  gets  sight  of  this  yere 
poker  festival  ragin'  in  the  cabin.  Thar  they  be, 
antein',  goin'  it  blind,  straddlin',  raisin'  before  the 
draw,  bluffin',  an'  bettin',  an*  havin'  the  time  of 
their  c'reers. 

"  '  It's  the  spring  flood,  an'  the  old  Cumber 
land  is  bank-full  an*  still  a-risin'.  The  flat  boat  is 
softly  raisin'  an*  fallin'  on  the  sobbin'  tide.  It's 
then  them  jocular  impulses  seizes  me,  that  a-way, 
an'  I  stoops  an'  casts  off  her  one  line,  an'  that  flat 
boat  swims  silently  away  on  the  bosom  of  the  river. 
The  sports  inside  knows  nothin*  an'  guesses  less, 
an'  their  gayety  swells  on  without  a  hitch. 


Old  Man  Enright's  Love.  277 

"'  It's  three  o'clock  an'  Jedge  Finn,  who's  won 
about  a  hundred  an'  sixty  dollars,  realizes  it's  all 
the  money  in  the  outfit,  an'  gets  cold  feet  plenty 
prompt.  He  murmurs  somethin'  about  tellin'  the 
old  lady  Finn  he'd  be  in  early,  an'  shoves  back 
amidst  the  scoffs  an'  jeers  of  the  losers.  But  the 
good  old  Jedge  don't  mind,  an'  openin'  the  door, 
he  goes  out  into  the  night  an'  the  dark,  an'  care 
fully  picks  his  way  overboard  into  forty  foot  of 
water.  The  yell  the  Jedge  emits  as  he  makes  his 
little  hole  in  the  Cumberland  is  the  first  news  them 
kyard  sharps  gets  that  they're  afloat  a  whole  lot. 

" '  It  ain't  no  push-over  rescooin'  Jedge  Finn 
that  time.  The  one  hundred  an'  sixty  is  in  Mexi 
can  money,  an'  he's  got  a  pound  or  two  of  it  sink- 
ered  about  his  old  frame  in  every  pocket ;  so  he 
goes  to  the  bottom  like  a  kag  of  nails. 

"  *  But  they  works  hard,  an'  at  last  fishes  him  out, 
an'  rolls  him  over  a  bar'l  to  get  the  water  an'  the 
money  outen  him.  Which  onder  sech  treatment, 
the  Jedge  disgorges  both,  an'  at  last  comes  to  a 
trifle  an'  is  fed  whiskey  with  a  spoon. 

" '  Havin'  saved  the  Jedge,  the  others  turns  loose 
a  volley  of  yells  that  shorely  scares  up  them  echoes 
far  an'  wide.  It  wakes  up  a  little  old  tug  that's 
tied  in  Dead  Nigger  Bend,  an'  she  fires  up  an* 
pushes  forth  to  their  relief.  The  tug  hauls  'em 
back  to  Warwhoop  for  seventy  dollars,  which  is 
paid  out  of  the  rescooed  treasure  of  Jedge  Finn, 
the  same  bein'  declar'd  salvage  by  them  bandits 
he's  been  playin'  with. 


278  Wolfville  Days. 

"  '  It's  two  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  when  that 
band  of  gamblers  pulls  up  ag'in  at  Warwhoop,  an' 
they're  shorely  a  saddened  party  as  they  files 
ashore.  The  village  is  thar  in  a  frownin'  an'  resent 
ful  body  to  arrest  'em  for  them  voylations,  which  is 
accordin*  done. 

"  '  At  the  same  time,  I  regyards  the  play  as  the 
funniest, ondoubted,  that's  ever  been  evolved  in  Ten 
nessee  ;  but  my  mood  changes  as  subsequent  events 
assoomes  a  somber  face.  Old  Jedge  Finn  goes 
fumin'  about  like  a  wronged  lion,  an'  the  rest  is  as 
hot  as  election  day  in  a  hornet's  nest.  Pards,  I'm 
a  Mexican  !  if  they  don't  indict  me  for  piracy  on 
the  high  seas,  an'  pledge  their  words  to  see  me 
hanged  before  ever  co't  adjourns. 

"'That  lets  me  out,  right  thar!  I  sees  the 
symptoms  of  my  onpop'larity  in  advance,  an' 
don't  procrastinate  none.  I  goes  sailin'  over  the 
divide  to  the  Tennessee,  down  the  Tennessee  to 
the  Ohio,  down  the  Ohio  to  the  Mississippi,  down 
the  Mississippi  to  the  Arkansaw,  up  the  Arkansaw 
to  Little  Rock  ;  an'  thar  I  pauses,  exhausted  shore, 
but  safe  as  a  murderer  in  Georgia.  Which  I  never 
does  go  back  for  plumb  ten  years. 

" '  Nacherally,  because  of  this  yere  exodus,  I 
misses  my  engagements  with  the  Purple  Blossom  ; 
also  them  nuptials  I  plots  about  Polly  Hawks, 
suffers  the  kybosh  a  whole  lot.  However,  I 
survives,  an'  Polly  survives ;  she  an'  the  Purple 
Blossom  hooks  up  a  month  later,  an'  I  learns  since 
they  shore  has  offsprings  enough  to  pack  a  primary 


Old  Man  Enright's  Love.  279 

or  start  a  public  school.  It's  all  over  long  ago, 
an'  I'm  glad  the  kyards  falls  as  they  do.  Still, 
as  I  intimates,  thar's  them  moments  of  romance  to 
ride  me  down,  when  I  remembers  my  one  lone  love 
affair  with  Polly  Hawks,  the  beauty  of  the  Painted 
Post.' 

"  Enright  pauses,  an'  we-all  sets  still  a  moment 
out  of  respects  to  the  old  chief.  At  last  Dan 
Boggs,  who's  always  bubblin*  that  a-way,  speaks 
up: 

"*  Which  I'm  shore  sorry/  says  Dan,  'you  don't 
fetch  the  moosic  of  that  Purple  Blossom's  war- 
song  West.  I  deems  that  a  mighty  excellent  lay, 
an'  would  admire  to  learn  it  an'  sing  it  some  myse'f. 
I'd  shore  go  over  an'  carol  it  to  Red  Dog;  it  would 
redooce  them  drunkards  to  frenzy.'  " 


CHAPTER  XVIIL 
When  Whiskey  Billy  Died* 

"  LIES  in  the  lump  that  a-way,"  said  the  Old 
Cattleman,  apropos  of  some  slight  discussion  in 
which  we  were  engaged,  "  is  bad — an'  make  no 
doubt  about  it ! — that  is,  lies  which  is  told  malev'- 
lent. 

"  But  thar's  a  sort  of  ranikaboo  liar  on  earth, 
an'  I  don't  mind  him  nor  his  fabrications,  none 
whatever.  He's  one  of  these  yere  amiable  gents 
who's  merely  aimin'  to  entertain  you  an*  elevate 
your  moods  ;  an'  carryin'  out  sech  plans,  he  sort  o' 
spreads  himse'f,  an'  gets  excursive  in  conversation, 
castin'  loose  from  facts  as  vain  things  onworthy  of 
him.  Thar  used  to  be  jest  sech  a  mendacious  party 
who  camps  'round  Wolfville  for  a  while — if  I  don't 
misrecollect,  he  gets  plugged  standin*  up  a  through 
stage,  final — who  is  wont  to  lie  that  a-way  ;  we 
calls  him  '  Lyin'  Amos.'  But  they're  only  meant 
to  entertain  you  ;  them  stories  be.  Amos  is  never 
really  out  to  put  you  on  a  wrong  trail  to  your 
ondoin'. 

"  We-all  likes  Amos  excellent ;  but,  of  course, 
when  he  takes  to  the  hills  as  a  hold-up,  somebody 
has  to  down  him  ;  an'  my  mem'ry  on  that  p'int  is, 


When  Whiskey  Billy  Died.  281 

they  shorely  do.  What  for  lies  would  this  yere 
Amos  tell  ?  Well,  for  instance,  Amos  once  regales 
me  with  a  vivid  picture  of  how  he  backs  into  a 
corner  an'  pulls  his  lonely  gun  on  twenty  gents,  all 
'  bad.'  This  yere  is  over  in  Deming.  An'  he  goes 
on  dilatin'  to  the  effect  that  he  stops  six  of  'em  for 
good  with  the  six  loads  in  his  weepon,  an*  then 
makes  it  a  stand-off  on  the  remainin'  fourteen  with 
the  empty  gun. 

"  *  It  is  the  slumberin'  terrors  of  my  eye,  I 
reckons,'  says  this  Lyin'  Amos. 

"  Which  it's  reason,  an'  likewise  fact,  that  sech 
tales  is  merest  figments  on  their  faces ;  to  say 
nothin'  of  the  hist'ry  of  that  camp  of  Deming, 
which  don't  speak  of  no  sech  blood. 

"  But,  as  I  says,  what  of  it  ?  Pore  Lyin'  Amos  ! 
— he's  'cashed  in  an'  settled  long  ago,  like  I 
mentions,  goin'  for  the  Wells-Fargo  boxes  onct 
too  frequent !  Which  the  pitcher  goes  too  often 
to  the  well,  that  a-way,  an*  Amos  finds  it  out  ! 
Still,  Amos  is  only  out  to  entertain  me  when  he 
onfurls  how  lucky  an'  how  ferocious  he  is  that 
time  at  Deming.  Amos  is  simply  whilin'  the  hours 
away  when  he  concocts  them  romances ;  an'  so  far 
from  bein'  distrustful  of  him  on  account  tharof, 
or  holdin'  of  him  low  because  he  lets  his  fancy 
stampede  an'  get  away  with  him,  once  we  saveys 
his  little  game  in  all  its  harmlessness,  it  makes 
Amos  pop'lar.  We  encourages  Amos  in  them 
expansions. 

"  Speakin'  of  lyin',  an'  bein'  we're  on  the  subject, 


282  Wolfvillc  Days. 

it  ain't  too  much  to  state  that  thar's  plenty 
o'casions  when  lyin'  is  not  only  proper  but  good. 
It's  the  thing  to  do. 

"  Comin'  to  cases,  the  world's  been  forever  basin* 
its  game  on  the  lies  that's  told  ;  an'  I  reckons  now 
if  every  gent  was  to  turn  in  an'  tell  nothin'  but 
the  trooth  for  the  next  few  hours,  thar  would  be  a 
heap  of  folks  some  hard  to  find  at  the  close  of  them 
mootual  confidences.  Which  places  now  flourishin' 
like  a  green  bay-tree  would  be  deserted  wastes  an' 
solitoodes.  Yes,  as  I  says,  now  I  gets  plumb 
cog'tative  about  it,  sech  attempts  to  put  down 
fiction  might  result  in  onpreecedented  disaster. 
Thar  be  times  when  trooth  should  shorely  have  a 
copper  on  it ;  but  we  lets  that  pass  as  spec'lative. 

"As  my  mind  is  led  back  along  the  trail,  thar 
looms  before  the  mirror  of  mem'ry  a  hour  when  the 
whole  Wolfville  outfit  quits  every  other  game  to 
turn  itse'f  loose  an'  lie.  Which  for  once  we  takes 
the  limit  off.  Not  only  do  we  talk  lies,  we  acts 
'em  ;  an'  Enright  an*  Doc  Peets  an'  Texas  Thomp 
son,  as  well  as  Moore  an'  Tutt  an'  Boggs,  to  say 
nothin'  of  myse'f  an'  Cherokee  Hall,  an'  the  rest  of 
the  round-up,  gets  in  on  the  play.  Which  every 
gent  stands  pat  on  them  inventions  to  this  yere 
day,  disdainin'  excooses  an'  declinin'  forgiveness 
tharfor.  Moreover,  we  plays  the  same  system 
ag'in,  layout  an'  deal  box  bein'  sim'lar.  The  fact  is, 
if  ever  a  outfit's  hand  gets  crowded,  it's  ours. 

"  The  demands  for  these  yere  falsehoods  has  its 
first  seeds  one  even  in'  when  a  drunken  party  comes 


When  Whiskey  Billy  Died.  283 

staggerin'  into  camp  from  Red  Dog.  It's  strange ; 
but  it  looks  like  Wolfville  has  a  fasc'nation  for 
them  Red  Dog  sots  ;  which  they're  allers  comin' 
over.  This  victim  of  alcohol  is  not  a  stranger  to 
us,  not  by  no  means  ;  though  mostly  he  holds  his 
revels  in  his  Red  Dog  home.  His  name  I  disre-i 
members,  but  he  goes  when  he's  in  Wolfville  by  the 
name  of  '  Whiskey  Billy.'  If  he  has  a  last  name, 
which  it's  likely  some  he  has,  either  we  never  hears 
it  or  it  don't  abide  with  us.  Mebby  he  never  de- 
clar's  himse'f.  Anyhow,  when  he  gets  his  nose- 
paint  an'  wearies  folks  in  Wolfville,  sech  proceeding 
is  had  onder  the  nom  de  ploome  of  *  Whiskey  Billy/ 
with  nothin'  added  by  way  of  further  brands  or 
y 'ear-marks  tharonto. 

"  This  partic'lar  date  when  he  onloads  on  us  his 
companionship,  Whiskey  Billy  is  shore  the  drunk 
est  an'  most  ediotic  I  ever  sees.  Troo,  he  saveys 
enough  to  pull  his  freight  from  Red  Dog ;  but  I 
allers  allows  that's  merely  the  work  of  a  loocid 
interval. 

"  Whiskey  Billy  ain't  brightened  Wolfville  with 
his  society  more'n  an  hour — he  only  gets  one  drink 
with  us — when  he  lapses  into  them  treemors.  An', 
you  hear  me,  son,  he  shorely  has  'em  bad  ;  Hug- 
gins'  attacks  that  a-way  is  pooerile  to  'em. 

"  It  looks  like  that  Red  Dog  whiskey  is  speshul 
malignant.  I've  beheld  gents  who  has  visions  be 
fore  ever  Whiskey  Billy  emits  that  preelim'nary  yelp 
in  the  Red  Light,  an'  allows  that  Black  Jack  is 
pawin'  'round  to  skelp  him  ;  but  I'm  yere  to  remark, 


284  Wolfville  Days. 

an'  ready  to  enforce  my  statements  with  money, 
argyments  or  guns,  I  never  witnesses  no  case  which 
is  a  four-spot  to  Whiskey  Billy's. 

"  Why,  it  gets  so  before  he  quits  out — which  he 
does  after  frothin'  at  the  mouth  for  days,  an'  Boggs, 
an'  Tutt,  an'  Jack  Moore,  with  Doc  Peets  sooper- 
visin',  ridin'  herd  onto  him  an'  holdin'  him  down  in 
his  blankets  all  the  time— that  if  Whiskey  Billy 
goes  to  take  a  drink  of  water,  he  thinks  the  bever 
age  turns  to  blood.  If  he  sees  anythin'  to  eat,  it 
changes  into  a  Gila  monster,  or  some  sech  creepin' 
an*  disrepootable  reptile  ;  an'  Billy  jest  simply  r'ars 
back  an'  yells. 

"  As  I  intimates,  he  yields  to  them  errors  touchin' 
his  grub  an'  drink  for  days;  followin'  which,  Billy 
nacherally  gives  way  to  death,  to  the  relief  of  all 
concerned. 

"  '  You  can  gamble  I'm  never  so  pleased  to  see  a 
gent  die  in  my  life ! '  says  Dan  Boggs. 

"It's  most  likely  the  second  day  after  Billy's 
been  seein'  things,  an'  we've  corraled  him  in  a 
wickeyup  out  back  of  the  dance  hall,  when  Doc 
Peets  is  in  the  Red  Light  thoughtfully  absorbin' 
his  whiskey. 

"  'This  yere  riotous  patient  of  mine,'  says  Peets, 
as  he  leans  on  the  bar  an'  talks  general  an'  free  to 
all,  *  this  noisy  party  whom  you  now  hears  callin' 
Dan  Boggs  a  rattlesnake,  bein'  misled  to  that  ex 
tent  by  Red  Dog  licker,  has  a  ca'm  moment  about 
first  drink  time  this  mornin',  an'  beseeches  me 
to  send  for  his  mother.  As  a  sick  gent  has  a 


When  Whiskey  Billy  Died*  285 

right  to  dictate  terms  that  a-way,  I  dispatches  a 
telegram  to  the  lady  he  names,  sendin'  of  the  same 
by  Old  Monte  to  be  slammed  through  from  Tucson. 
I  reckons  she  gets  it  by  now.  Old  Monte  an'  the 
stage  has  been  in  Tucson  for  more'n  an  hour,  an'  as 
'lectricity  is  plenty  sudden  as  a  means,  I  takes  it 
Whiskey  Billy's  mother  is  informed  that  he's  askin' 
for  her  presence/ 

"  '  Which  if  he's  callin'  an'  honin'  for  his  mother/ 
says  Texas  Thompson,  who's  at  the  bar  with  Peets, 
'  it's  cattle  to  sheep  he's  a  goner.  You  can  allers 
tell  when  a  sport  is  down  to  his  last  chip  ;  he  never 
omits  to  want  to  see  his  mother.' 

"  '  That's  whatever  ! '  says  Enright.  '  Like  Texas, 
I  holds  sech  desires  on  the  part  of  this  yere  Red 
Dog  martyr  as  markin'  the  beginnin'  of  the  end.' 

"  '  Bein'  he's  plumb  locoed,'  remarks  Peets,  after 
Texas  an'  Enright  expresses  themse'fs,  '  I  takes  the 
liberty  to  rustle  them  clothes  of  Billy's  for  signs. 
I  developed  letters  from  this  near  relatif  he's 
clamorin'  for ;  also  a  picture  as  shows  she's  as  fine 
a  old  lady  as  ever  makes  a  flapjack.  From  the 
way  she  writes,  it's  all  plain  an'  easy  he's  been 
sendin'  her  some  rainbows  about  how  he's  loomin' 
up,  like  Slim  Jim  does  his  sister  that  a-way.  He's  jest 
now  industriously  trackin'  'round,  lookin'  to  locate 
himse'f  as  a  lawyer.  I  don't  reckon  this  yere 
mother  has  the  slightest  idee  he's  nothin'  more'n  a 
ragged,  busted  victim  of  Red  Dog.  Lookin'  at  it 
that  a-way,'  concloodcs  Peets,  *  I'm  wonderin' 
whether  I  don't  make  a  crazy-hoss  play  sendin'  this 
lady  them  summons.' 


286  Wolfvillc  Days. 

" '  When  she  gets  here,  if  she  comes,'  says 
Enright,  an'  his  voice  shows  a  heap  of  sympathetic 
interest ;  '  when  she  finds  out  about  Whiskey 
Billy,  it's  goin*  to  break  her  heart.  That  she  ain't 
game  to  make  the  trip  is  shorely  to  be  hoped.' 

"  *  You  can  gamble  a  pony  she  comes,'  says 
Texas.  *  If  it's  a  wife,  now,  like  mine — which  goes 
ropin'  'round  for  a  divorce  over  in  Laredo  recent; 
an',  as  you-all  is  aware,  she  shorely  ties  it  down — 
thar  might  be  a  chance  out  ag'in  her  advent.  But 
bein'  she's  his  mother,  Wolfville  may  as  well  brace 
itse'f  for  the  shock.' 

" '  I  don't  reckon  thar's  no  doubt  of  it,  neither,' 
replies  Enright,  drawin'  a  sigh  ;  '  which  bein'  the 
case,  we've  got  to  organize.  This  camp  must  turn 
in  when  she  gets  here  an'  deloode  that  pore  old 
mother  into  the  belief  that  her  son  Billy's  been  the 
prop  an'  stay  of  Arizona,  an*  that  his  ontimely 
cuttin'  off  quenches  the  most  shinin'  light  that 
a-way  of  the  age  wherein  we  lives.' 

"  '  Mighty  likely,'  says  Peets,  '  we  gets  a  message 
from  her  to-morry,  when  Old  Monte  trails  in. 
That'll  tell  us  what  to  expect.  I'm  like  you-all, 
however;  I  don't  allow  thar's  a  morsel  of  doubt 
about  that  mother  comin'.' 

" '  Which  I  shorely  hopes  she  does/  says  Texas 
'an'  I  yereby  drinks  to  it,  an'  urges  every  gent 
likewise.  If  thar's  a  thing  on  earth  that  melts  me, 
it's  one  o'  them  gray-ha'red  old  ladies.  Young 
females  that  a-way  is  all  right,  an*  it's  plenty  nache- 
ral  for  agent  to  be  cur'ous  an'  pleased  tharwith ; 


When  Whiskey  Billy  Died.  287 

but  I  never  does  track  up  with  an  old  lady,  white- 
ha'red  an'  motherly  mind  you,  but  I  takes  off  my 
sombrero  an'  says :  "  You'll  excuse  me,  marm,  but  I 
wants  to  trespass  on  your  time  long  enough  to  ask 
your  pardon  for  livin'."  That's  right ;  that's  the 
way  I  feels  ;  plumb  religious  at  the  mere  sight  of 
'em.  If  I  was  to  meet  as  many  as  two  of  'em  at 
onct,  I'd  j'ine  the  church.  The  same  bein'  troo,  I'm 
sayin'  that  this  yere  Whiskey  Billy's  mother  cant 
strike  camp  too  soon  nor  stop  too  long  for  Texas 
Thompson.' 

"  *  Every  gent  I  reckons  feels  all  sim'lar/  says 
Cherokee  Hall.  '  A  old  lady  is  the  one  splendid 
thing  the  Lord  ever  makes.  I  knows  a  gent  over 
back  of  Prescott,  an'  the  sight  of  a  good  old  woman 
would  stop  his  nose-paint  for  a  week.  Wouldn't 
drink  a  drop  nor  play  a  kyard,  this  party  wouldn't, 
for  a  week  after  he  cuts  the  trail  of  somebody's  old 
mother.  He  allows  it  revives  mem'ries  of  his  own, 
an'  that  he  ain't  out  to  mix  no  sech  visions  with 
faro-bank  an'  whiskey  bottles.' 

" '  An'  I  applauds  this  yere  Prescott  person's 
views,'  says  Texas  Thompson,  *  an'  would  be  proud 
to  know  the  gent.' 

" '  How  long,  Peets,'  says  Enright,  who's  been 
thinkin'  hard  an'  serious,  '  how  long — an'  start  at 
onct — before  ever  this  yere  Whiskey  Billy's  parent 
is  goin'  to  strike  the  camp  ?  ' 

" '  It'll  be  five  days  shore,'  answers  Peets. 
'  She's  'way  back  yonder  the  other  side  of  the 
Missouri.' 


288  Wolfville  Days, 

"  When  Old  Monte  comes  rumblin'  along  in  next 
day,  thar's  the  message  from  Whiskey  Billy's 
mother.  She's  shore  a-comin'.  This  yere  Billy  is 
so  plumb  in  the  air,  mental,  he  never  does  know 
it,  an'  he  dies  ten  hours  before  the  old  lady  drives 
in.  But  Wolfville's  ready.  That's  the  time  when 
the  whole  band  simply  suspends  everythin'  to  lie. 

"  Whiskey  Billy  is  arrayed  in  Doc  Peets'  best 
raiment,  so,  as  Peets  says,  he  looks  professional  like 
a  law  sharp  should.  An'  bein'  as  we  devotes  to 
Billy  all  the  water  the  windmill  can  draw  in  a 
hour,  he  is  a  pattern  of  personal  neatness  that 
a- way. 

"  Enright — an'  thar  never  is  the  gent  who  gets 
ahead  of  that  old  silver  tip — takin'  the  word  from 
Peets  in  advance,  sends  over  to  Tucson  for  a  coffin 
as  fine  as  the  dance-hall  piano,  an'  it  comes  along 
in  the  stage  ahead  of  Billy's  mother.  When  she 
does  get  thar,  Billy's  all  laid  out  handsome  an' 
tranquil  in  the  dinin'-room  of  the  O.  K.  Restauraw, 
an'  the  rest  of  us  is  eatin'  supper  in  the  street.  It 
looks  selfish  to  go  crowdin'  a  he'pless  remainder 
that  a-way,  an'  him  gettin'  ready  to  quit  the  earth 
for  good  ;  so  the  dinin'-room  bein'  small,  an'  the 
coffin  needin'  the  space,  the  rest  of  us  vamoses  into 
the  causeway,  an'  Missis  Rucker  is  dealin'  us  our 
chuck  when  the  stage  arrives. 

"Thar's  a  adjournment  prompt,  however,  an*  we- 
all  goes  over  to  cheer  up  Whiskey  Billy's  mother 
when  she  gets  out.  Enright  leads  off,  an'  the  rest 
trails  in  an'  follows  his  play,  shakin'  the  old  lady's 


When  Whiskey  Billy  Died.  289 

hand  an'  givin'  her  the  word  what  a  success  her 
boy  is  while  he  lives,  an'  what  a  blow  it  is  when  he 
peters.  It  comes  plumb  easy,  that  mendacity  does, 
for,  as  Texas  Thompson  surmises,  she  is  shorely  the 
beautifulest  old  lady  I  ever  sees  put  a  handker 
chief  to  her  eyes. 

"  *  Don't  weep,  marm,'  says  Enright.  '  This  yere 
camp  of  Wolfville,  knowin*  Willyum  an'  his  vir- 
choos  well,  by  feelin'  its  own  onmeasured  loss,  puts 
no  bound'ries  on  its  sympathy  for  you.' 

" 4  Death  loves  a  shinin'  mark,  marm,'  says  Doc 
Peets,  as  he  presses  the  old  lady's  hand  an'  takes 
off  his  hat,  '  an'  the  same  bein'  troo,  it's  no  marvel 
the  destroyer  experiments  'round  ontil  he  gets 
your  son  Willyum's  range.  We're  like  brothers, 
Willyum  an'  me,  an'  from  a  close,  admirin'  friend 
ship  which  extends  over  the  year  an'  a  half  since 
he  leaves  you  in  the  States,  I'm  shore  qualified  to 
state  how  Willyum  is  the  brightest,  bravest  gent  in 
Arizona.' 

"  An*  do  you  know,  son,  this  yere,  which  seems  a 
mockery  while  I  repeats  it  now,  is  like  the  real 
thing  at  the  time  !  I'm  a  coyote  !  if  it  don't  affect 
Texas  Thompson  so  he  sheds  tears  ;  an'  Dan  Boggs 
an'  Tutt  an'  Moore  an'  Cherokee  Hall  is  lookin'  far 
from  bright  about  the  eyes  themse'fs. 

"  We-all  goes  over  to  the  O.  K.  House,  followin' 
the  comin'  of  the  stage,  an'  leads  the  old  gray 
mother  in  to  the  side  of  her  son,  an'  leaves  her  thar. 
Enright  tells  her,  as  we  turns  cat-foot  to  trail  out 
so  she  won't  be  pestered  by  the  presence  of  us,  as 


290  "Wolfville  Days* 

how  Peets'll  come  back  in  a  hour  to  see  her,  an' 
that  as  all  of  us'll  be  jest  across  the  street,  it'll  be 
plenty  easy  to  fetch  us  if  she  feels  like  company. 
As  we  starts  for  the  Red  Light  to  get  somethin'  to 
cheer  us  up,  I  sees  her  where  she  's  settin'  with  her 
arm  an'  face  on  the  coffin. 

"  It's  great  work,  though,  them  lies  we  tells ;  an* 
I  notes  how  the  mother's  pride  over  what  a  good 
an*  risin'  sport  her  son  has  been,  half-way  breaks 
even  with  her  grief. 

"  Thar  is  only  one  thing  which  happens  to  dis 
turb  an'  mar  the  hour,  an'  not  a  whisper  of  this  ever 
drifts  to  Whiskey  Billy's  mother.  She's  busy  with 
her  sorrow  where  we  leaves  her,  an'  she  never  hears 
a  sound  but  her  own  sobs.  It's  while  we're  waitin', 
all  quiet  an'  pensif,  camped  about  the  Red  Light. 
Another  outlaw  from  Red  Dog  comes  cavortin'  in. 
Of  course,  he  is  ignorant  of  our  bein'  bereaved  that 
a-way,  but  he'd  no  need  to  be. 

" '  Whatever's  the  matter  with  you-all  wolves 
yere  ?  '  he  demands,  as  he  comes  bulgin'  along  into 
the  Red  Light.  '  Where's  all  your  howls  ?  ' 

"  Texas  arises  from  where  he's  settin'  with  his 
face  in  his  hands,  an'  wipin'  the  emotion  outen  his 
eyes,  softly  an'  reverentially  beats  his  gun  over  this 
yere  party's  head  ;  whereupon  he  c'llapses  into  the 
corner  till  called  for.  Then  we-all  sets  down  silent 
an'  sympathetic  ag'in. 

"  It's  the  next  day  when  Whiskey  Billy  takes  his 
last  ride  over  to  Tucson  on  a  buckboard.  A  dozen 
of  us  goes  along,  makin'  good  them  bluffs  about 


When  Whiskey  Billy  Died.  291 

Billy's  worth ;  Enright  an'  Peets  is  in  the  stage 
with  the  old  mother,  an'  the  rest  of  us  on  our 
ponies  as  a  bodygyard  of  honor. 

" '  An'  it  is  well,  marm,'  says  Enright,  as  we-all 
shakes  hands,  as  Billy  an'  his  mother  is  about  to 
leave  Tucson,  an'  we  stands  b'ar-headed  to  say 
adios ;  'an'  death  quits  loser  half  its  gloom  when 
one  reflects  that  while  Willyum  dies,  he  leaves  the 
world  an'  all  of  us  better  for  them  examples  he  ex 
erts  among  us.  Willyum  may  die,  but  his  mem'ry 
will  live  long  to  lead  an'  guide  us.' 

"  I  could  see  the  old  mother's  eyes  shine  with  pride 
through  her  tears  when  Enright  says  this ;  an'  as 
she  comes  'round  an'  shakes  an'  thanks  us  all 
speshul,  I'm  shorely  proud  of  Wolfville's  chief.  So 
is  everybody,  I  reckons  ;  for  when  we're  about  a 
mile  out  on  the  trail  back,  an'  all  ridin'  silent  an* 
quiet,  Texas  ups  an'  shakes  Enright  by  the  hand 
a  heap  sudden,  an'  says  : 

"'Sam  Enright,  I  ain't  reported  as  none  emo 
tional,  but  I'm  yours  to  command  from  now  till 
death,  an'  yere's  the  hand  an'  word  of  Texas 
Thompson  on  it.' " 


CHAPTER  XIX* 
When  the  Stage  Was  Stopped. 

"  CAMP  down  into  that  cha'r  thar,  son,"  said  the 
Old  Cattleman  with  much  heartiness.  "  Which 
I'm  waitin'  for  that  black  boy  Tom  to  come  back  ; 
I  sends  him  for  my  war-bags.  No,  I  don't  need  'em 
none,  only  I've  got  to  give  this  yere  imbecile  Tom 
money.  Them  Senegambians  is  shore  a  pecooliar 
people.  They  gets  a  new  religion  same  as  you-all 
gets  a  new  hat,  an'  they  changes  their  names  like 
some  folks  does  their  shirt.  Which  they're  that 
loose  an'  liable  about  churches  an'  cognomens! 

"  As  for  money,  take  this  boy  Tom.  He  actoo- 
ally  transacts  his  life  on  the  theery  that  he  has 
prior  claims  on  every  splinter  of  my  bank-roll. 
Jest  now  he  descends  onto  me  an'  e'labe'rately  states 
his  title  to  ten  pesos.  Says  he's  done  j'ined  a  new 
church,  an*  has  been  made  round-up  boss  or  some- 
thin'  to  a  outfit  called,  '  The  Afro-American 
Widows'  Ready  Relief  Society,'  an'  that  his  doos  is 
ten  chips.  Of  course,  he  has  to  have  the  dinero,  so 
I  dismisses  him  for  my  wallet  like  I  says. 

"Does  them  folks  change  their  names?  They 
changes  'em  as  read'ly  as  a  Injun  breaks  camp  ;  does 
it  at  the  drop  of  the  hat.  This  yere  Guinea  of 


When  the  Stage  Was  Stopped*  293 

mine,  his  name's  Tom.  Yet  at  var'ous  times,  lie 
informs  me  of  them  mootations  he's  institooted, 
He's  been  'Jim  '  an'  '  Sam  '  an'  *  Willyum  Henry,' 
an'  all  in  two  months.  Shore,  I  don't  pay  no  heed 
to  sech  vagaries,  but  goes  on  callin'  him  '  Tom/  jest 
the  same.  An'  he  keeps  comin'  when  I  calls,  too, 
or  I'd  shore  burn  the  ground  'round  him  to  a  cinder. 
I'd  be  a  disgrace  to  old  Tennessee  to  let  my  boy 
Tom  go  preescribin'  what  I'm  to  call  him.  But 
they  be  cur'ous  folks  !  The  last  time  this  hirelin' 
changes  his  name,  I  asks  the  reason. 

"  *  Tom,'  I  says,  '  this  yere  is  the  'leventh  time 
you  cinches  on  a  new  name.  Now,  tell  me,  why  be 
you-all  attemptin'  to  shift  to  "Willyum  Henry?" 

" 4  Why,  Marse,'  he  says,  after  thinkin'  hard  a 
whole  lot,  *  I  don't  know,  only  my  sister  gets  mar 
ried  ag'in  last  night,  an'  I  can't  think  of  nothin'  else 
to  do,  so  I  sort  o'  allows  I'll  change  my  name.'  ' 

A  moment  later  the  exuberant  and  many-titled 
Tom  appeared  with  the  pocket-book.  My  old 
friend  selected  a  ten-dollar  bill  and  with  an  air  of 
severity  gave  it  to  his  expectant  servitor. 

"  Thar  you  be,"  he  observed.  "  Now,  go  pay 
them  doos,  an'  don't  hanker  'round  me  for  money 
no  more  for  a  month.  You  can't  win  from  me  ag'in 
before  Christmas,  no  matter  how  often  you  changes 
your  name,  or  how  many  new  churches  you  plays 
in  with.  For  a  nigger,  you-all  is  a  mighty  sight  too 
vol'tile.  Your  sperits  is  too  tireless,  an'  stays  too 
long  on  the  wing.  Which,  onless  you  cultivates  a 
placider  mood  an'  studies  reepose  a  whole  lot,  I'll 


294  Wolfville  Days* 

go  foragin'  about  in  my  plunder  an'  search  forth  a 
quirt,  or  mebby  some  sech  stingin'  trifle  as  a  trace- 
chain,  an'  warp  you  into  quietood  an'  peace.  I 
reckons  now  sech  ceremonies  would  go  some  ways 
towards  beddin'  you  down  an'  inculcatin'  lessons  of 
patience  a  heap." 

The  undaunted  Tom  listened  to  his  master's 
gloomy  threats  with  an  air  of  cheer.  There  was  a 
happy  grin  on  his  face  as  he  accepted  the  money 
and  scraped  a  "  Thanky,  sah  !"  To  leave  a  religious 
impression  which  seemed  most  consistent  with  the 
basis  of  Tom's  appeal,  that  dusky  claimant  of  ten 
dollars,  as  he  withdrew,  hummed  softly  a  camp- 
meeting  song: 

"  Tu'n  around  an'  tu'n  yo'  face, 

Untoe  them  sweet  hills  o'  grace. 

(Df  pow'rs  of  Sin  yo'  ?m  scornin' !) 

Look  about  an'  look  a  oun', 

Fling  yo'  sin-pack  on  d'  groun'. 

(Yo'  will  meet  wid  d'  Lord  in  d'  mornin'.)" 
"  Speakin'  about  this  yere  vacillatin'  Tom,"  said 
the  old  gentleman,  as  he  watched  that  person  dis 
appear,  "  shiftin'  his  religious  grazin'  ground  that 
a-way,  let  me  tell  you.  Them  colored  folks  pulls  on 
an'  pulls  off  their  beliefs  as  easy  as  a  Mexican.  An' 
their  faith  never  gets  in  their  way  ;  them  tenets 
never  seems  to  get  between  their  hocks  an'  trip  'em 
up  in  anythin'  they  wants  to  do.  They  goes  rangin' 
'round,  draggin'  them  religious  lariats  of  theirs,  an* 
I  never  yet  beholds  that  church  which  can  drive 
any  picket  pin  of  doctrines,  or  prodooce  any  hobbles 
of  a  creed,  that'll  hold  a  Mexican  or  a  nigger,  or 


When  the  Stage  Was  Stopped.  295 

keep  him  from  prancin*  out  after  the  first  notion 
that  nods  or  beckons  to  him.  Thar's  no  whim  an' 
no  fancy  which  'can  make  so  light  a  wagon-track  he 
won't  follow  it  off. 

"  Speakin'  of  churches  that  a-way :  This  yere 
Tom's  been  with  me  years.  One  day  about  two 
months  ago,  he  fronts  up  to  me  an'  says : 

"  '  I'se  got  to  be  mighty  careful  what  I  does  now  ; 
I'se  done  j'ined.  I  gives  my  soul  to  heaven  on  high 
last  night,  an'  wrops  myse'f  tight  an'  fast  in  bonds 
of  savin'  grace  wid  d*  Presbyter'an  chu'ch.  Yes, 
sah,  I  m  a  Christian,  an'  I  don't  want  no  one, 
incloodin'  myse'f,  to  go  forgettin'  it.' 

"  This  yere  news  don't  weigh  on  me  partic'lar,  an* 
I  makes  no  comments.  It's  three  weeks  later  when 
Tom  cuts  loose  another  commoonication. 

"  *  You  rec'llects,'  he  says,  '  about  me  bein'  a  j'iner 
an'  hookin'  up  wid  d'  Presbyter'ans  ?  Well,  I'se 
done  shook  'em  ;  I  quit  that  sanchooary  for  d'  Mefo- 
dis.'  D'  Presbyter'an  is  a  heap  too  gloomy  a  religion 
for  a  niggah,  sah.  Dey  lams  loose  at  me  wid 
foreord'nation  an'  preedest'nation,  an'  how  d'  bad 
place  is  paved  wid  chil'ens  skulls,  an'  how  so  many 
is  called,  an'  only  one  in  a  billion  beats  d'  gate ; 
an'  fin'lly,  las'  Sunday,  B'rer  Peters,  he's  d'  preacher, 
he  ups  an'  p'ints  at  me  in  speshul  an'  says  he  sees 
in  a  dream  how  I'm  h'ar-hung  an'  breeze-shaken 
over  hell ;  an',  sah,  he  simply  scare  dis  niggah  to 
where  I  jest  lay  down  in  d'  pew  an*  howl.  After 
I'se  done  lamented  till  my  heart's  broke,  I  passes  in 
my  resignation,  an'  now  I'se  gone  an'  done  attach 


296  Wolfville  Days* 

myse'f  to  d'  Mefodis'.  Thar's  a  deal  mo'  sunshine 
among  d'  Mefodis'  folks,  an'  d'  game's  a  mighty  sight 
easier.  All  you  does  is  get  sprunkled,  an'  thar  you 
be,  in  wid  d'  sheep,  kerzip ! ' 

"  In  less'n  a  month  Tom  opens  up  on  them 
religious  topics  once  more.  I  allers  allows  him  to 
talk  as  long  an'  as  much  as  ever  he  likes,  as  you-all 
couldn't  stop  him  none  without  buckin'  an'  gaggin* 
him,  so  what's  the  use  ? 

"  *  I  aims  to  excuse  myse'f  to  you,  sah,'  says  Tom 
this  last  time,  '  for  them  misstatements  about  me 
leavin'  d'  Presbyter'ans  for  d'  Mefodis.'  I  does  do  it 
for  troo,  but  now  I'se  gone  over,  wool  an'  weskit,  to 
d'  Baptis'.  An',  sah,  I  feels  mighty  penitent  an' 
promisin',  I  does  ;  I'm  gwine  to  make  a  stick  of  it 
dis  time.  It's  resky  to  go  changin'  about  from 
one  fold  to  the  other  like  I'se  been  doin' ;  a  man 
might  die  between,  an'  then  where  is  he  ?' 

"  '  But  how  about  this  swap  to  the  Baptist  church  ? ' 
I  asks.  '  I  thought  you  tells  me  how  the  Methodist 
religion  is  full  of  sunshine  that  a-way.' 

"'So  I  does,  sah,'  says  Tom;  'so  I  does,  word 
for  word,  like  you  remembers  it.  But  I  don't  know 
d'  entire  story  then.  The  objections  I  has  to  d' 
Mefodis'  is  them  'sperience  meetin's  they  holds. 
They  'spects  you  to  stan'  up  an'  tell  'em  about  ail 
yo'  sins,  an  'fess  all  you've  been  guilty  of  endoorin* 
yo'  life !  Now,  sech  doin's  tu'ns  out  mighty 
embarrassin'  for  a  boy  like  Tom,  who's  been  a-livin* 
sort  o'  loose  an'  lively  for  a  likely  numbah  of  years, 
sah,  an'  I  couldn't  stan'  it,  sah !  I'm  too  modes'  to 


When  the  Stage  Was  Stopped*  297 

be  a  Mefodis'.  So  I  explains  an'  'pologizes  to  d' 
elders ;  then  I  shins  out  for  d'  Baptis'  folks  next 
door.  An'  it's  all  right.  I'm  at  peace  now  :  I'm  in 
d'  Baptis'  chu'ch,  sah.  You  go  inter  d'  watah,  ker- 
sause !  an'  that  sets  yo'  safe  in  d'  love  of  d' 
Lamb.'  " 

Following  these  revelations  of  my  friend  concern 
ing  the  jaunty  fashion  in  which  the  "  boy  Tom  " 
wore  his  religion  as  well  as  his  name,  I  maintained 
a  respectful  silence  for  perhaps  a  minute,  and  then 
ventured  to  seek  a  new  subject.  I  had  been  going 
over  the  vigorous  details  of  a  Western  robbery  in 
the  papers.  After  briefly  telling  the  story  as  I 
remembered  it,  in  its  broader  lines  at  least,  I  carried 
my  curiosity  to  that  interesting  body  politic,  the 
town  of  Wolfville. 

"  In  the  old  days,"  I  asked,  "  did  Wolfville  ever 
suffer  from  stage  robberies,  or  the  operations  of 
banditti  of  the  trail  ?  " 

"  Wolfville,"  responded  my  friend,  "  goes  ag'inst 
the  hold-up  game  so  often  we  lose  the  count.  Mostly, 
it  don't  cause  more'n  a  passin'  irr'tation.  Them 
robberies  an'  rustlin's  don't,  speakin'  general,  mean 
much  to  the  public  at  large.  The  express  company 
may  gnash  its  teeth  some,  but  comin'  down  to 
cases,  what  is  a  Wells-Fargo  grief  to  us?  Personal, 
we're  out  letters  an'  missifs  from  home,  an'  I've 
beheld  individooals  who  gets  that  heated  about  it 
you  don't  dar'  ask  'em  to  libate  ontil  they  cools; 
but  as  a  common  thing,  we-all  don't  suffer  no  practi 
cal  set-backs.  We're  shy  letters ;  but  sech  wounds 


298  Wolfville  Days* 

is  healed  by  time  an'  other  mails  to  come.  We  gains 
what  comfort  we  can  from  sw'arin'  a  lot,  an'  turns 
to  the  hopeful  footure  for  the  rest.  Thar's  one  time, 
however,  when  Wolfville  gets  wrought  up. 

"Which  the  Wolfville  temper,  usual,  is  ca'm  an' 
onperturbed  that  a-way.  Thar's  a  steadiness  to 
Wolfville  that  shows  the  camp  has  depth  ;  it  can 
lose  without  thinkin'  of  sooicide,  it  can  win  an'  not 
get  drunk.  The  Wolfville  emotions  sets  squar'  an' 
steady  in  the  saddle,  an'  it  takes  more  than  mere 
commonplace  buckin'  to  so  much  as  throw  its  foot 
loose  from  a  stirrup,  let  alone  send  it  flyin'  from  its 
seat. 

"  On  this  yere  o'casion,  however,  Wolfville  gets 
stirred  a  whole  lot.  For  that  matter,  the  balance  of 
Southeast  Arizona  gives  way  likewise,  an'  excite 
ment  is  gen'ral  an'  shorely  mounts  plumb  high.  I 
remembers  plain,  now  my  mind  is  on  them  topics, 
how  Red  Dog  goes  hysterical  complete,  an'  sets  up 
nights  an'  screams.  Which  the  vocal  carryin's  on 
of  that  prideless  village  is  a  shame  to  coyotes ! 

"  It's  hold-ups  that  so  wrings  the  public's  feelin's. 
Stages  is  stood  up  ;  passengers,  mail-bags  an'  ex 
press  boxes  gets  cleaned  out  for  their  last  splinter. 
An'  it  ain't  confined  to  jest  one  trail.  This  festival 
of  crime  incloodes  a  whole  region  ;  an'  twenty  stages, 
in  as  many  different  places  an'  almost  as  many 
days,  yields  up  to  these  yere  bandits.  Old  Moiate, 
looks  like,  is  a  speshul  fav'rite  ;  they  goes  through 
that  old  drunkard  twice  for  all  thar  is  in  the  vehicle. 
The  last  time  the  gyard  gets  downed. 


When  the  Stage  Was  Stopped*  299 

"  No  ;  the  stage  driver  ain't  in  no  peril  of  bein' 
plugged.  Thar's  rooles  about  stage  robbin',  same 
as  thar  is  to  faro-bank  an'  poker.  It's  onderstood 
by  all  who's  interested,  from  the  manager  of  the 
stage  company  to  the  gent  in  the  mask  who's  hold- 
in'  the  Winchester  on  the  outfit,  that  the  driver 
don't  fight.  He's  thar  to  drive,  not  shoot ;  an'  so 
when  he  hears  the  su'gestion,  *  Hands  up  ! '  that 
a-way,  he  stops  the  team,  sets  the  brake,  hooks  his 
fingers  together  over  his  head,  an'  nacherally  lets 
them  road  agents  an'  passengers  an'  gyards,  settle 
events  in  their  own  enfettered  way.  The  driver, 
usual,  cusses  out  the  brigands  frightful.  The  laws 
of  the  trail  accords  him  them  privileges,  imposin'  no 
reestrictions  on  his  mouth.  He's  plumb  free  to 
make  what  insultin'  observations  he  will,  so  long  as 
he  keeps  his  hands  up  an*  don't  start  the  team  none 
ontil  he's  given  the  proper  word;  the  same  comin' 
from  the  hold-ups  or  the  gyards,  whoever  emerges 
winner  from  said  emeutes. 

"  As  I  states,  the  last  time  Old  Monte  is  made  to 
front  the  iron,  the  Wells-Fargo  gyard  gets  plugged 
as  full  of  lead  as  a  bag  of  bullets.  An'  as  to  that 
business  of  loot  an'  plunder,  them  miscreants 
shorely  harvests  a  back  load  !  It  catches  Enright  a 
heap  hard,  this  second  break  which  these  yere 
felons  makes. 

"  Cherokee  Hall  an'  me  is  settin'  in  the  Red 
Light,  whilin*  away  time  between  bev'rages  with 
argyments,  when  Enright  comes  ploddin'  along  in 
with  the  tidin's.  Cherokee  an'  me,  by  a  sing'lar 


300  Wolfville  Days* 

coincidence,  is  discussin'  the  topic  of  '  probity '  that 
a-way,  although  our  loocubrations  don't  flourish 
none  concernin'  stage  rustlin'.  Cherokee  is  sayin' : 

"  *  Now,  I  holds  that  trade — what  you-all  might 
call  commerce,  is  plenty  sappenin'  to  the  integrity 
of  folks.  Meanin'  no  aspersions  on  any  gent  in 
camp,  shorely  not  on  the  proprietors  of  the  New 
York  Store,  what  I  reiterates  is  that  I  never  meets 
up  with  the  party  who  makes  his  livin'  weighin* 
things,  or  who  owns  a  pa'r  of  scales,  who's  on  the 
level  that  a-way.  Which  them  balances,  looks  like, 
weaves  a  spell  on  a  gent's  moral  princ'ples.  He's 
no  longer  on  the  squar'.' 

"  I'm  r'ared  back  on  my  hocks  organizin'  to  com 
bat  the  fal'cies  of  Cherokee,  when  Enright  pulls 
up  a  cha'r.  By  the  clouds  on  his  face,  both  me  an* 
Cherokee  sees  thar's  somethin'  on  the  old  chief's 
mind  a  lot,  wherefore  we  lays  aside  our  own  dis- 
pootes — which  after  all,  has  no  real  meanin',  an'  is 
what  Colonel  William  Greene  Sterett  calls  *  ac'- 
demic* — an'  turns  to  Enright  to  discover  whatever 
is  up.  Black  Jack  feels  thar's  news  in  the  air  an* 
promotes  the  nose-paint  without  s'licitation.  En- 
right  freights  his  glass  an'  then  says  : 

"  *  You-all  hears  of  the  noomerous  stage  rob 
beries?  Well,  Wolfville  lose  ag'in.  I,  myse'f,  this 
trip  am  put  in  the  hole  particular.  If  I  onderstands 
the  drift  of  my  own  private  affairs,  thar's  over  forty 
thousand  dollars  of  mine  on  the  stage,  bein'  what 
balance  is  doo  me  from  that  last  bunch  of  cattle. 
It's  mighty  likely  though  she's  in  drafts  that  a-way ; 


When  the  Stage  Was  Stopped,  301 

an*  I  jest  dispatches  one  of  my  best  riders  with  a 
lead  hoss  to  scatter  over  to  Tucson  an'  wire  in 
formations  east,  to  freeze  onto  that  money  ontil 
further  tidin's ;  said  drafts,  if  sech  thar  be,  havin' 
got  into  the  hands  of  these  yere  diligent  hold-ups 
aforesaid.' 

"  '  Forty  thousand  dollars  ! '  remarks  Cherokee. 
*  Which  that  is  a  jolt  for  shore  !  ' 

" '  It  shorely  shows  the  oncertainties  of  things/ 
says  Enright,  ag'in  referrin'  to  his  glass.  '  I'm  in 
the  very  act  of  congratulatin'  myse'f,  mental,  that 
this  yere  is  the  best  season  I  ever  sees,  when  a  party 
rides  in  from  the  first  stage  station  towards  Tuc 
son,  with  the  tale.  It's  shore  a  paradox  ;  it's  a 
case  where  the  more  I  win,  the  more  I  lose.  How 
ever,  I'm  on  the  trail  of  Jack  Moore  ;  a  conference 
with  Jack  is  what  I  needs  right  now.  I'll  be  back 
by  next  drink  time ; '  an'  with  that  Enright  goes 
surgin'  off  to  locate  Jack. 

"  Cherokee  an'  me,  as  might  be  expected,  turns 
our  powers  of  conversation  loose  with  this  new  last 
eepisode  of  the  trail. 

"  *  An'  I'm  struck  speshul,'  says  Cherokee,  '  about 
what  Enright  observes  at  the  finish,  that  it's  a  in 
stance  where  the  more  he  wins,  the  more  he  loses ; 
an'  how  this,  his  best  season,  is  goin'  to  be  his 
worst.  I  has  experiences  sim'lar  myse'f  onct. 
Which  the  cases  is  plumb  parallel ! 

"'This  time  when  my  own  individooal  game 
strikes  somethin'  an'  glances  off,  is  'way  back.  I  gets 
off  a  boat  on  the  upper  river  at  a  camp  called 


302  Wolfville  Days, 

Rock  Island.  You  never  is  thar?  I  don't  aim  to 
encourage  you-all  ondooly,  still  your  failure  to  see 
Rock  Island  needn't  prey  on  you  as  the  rooin  of 
your  c'reer.  I  goes  ashore  as  I  relates,  an'  the  first 
gent  I  encounters  is  old  Peg-laig  Jones.  This  yere 
Peg-laig  is  a  madman  to  spec'late  at  kyards,  an'  the 
instant  he  sees  me,  he  pulls  me  one  side,  plenty 
breathless  with  a  plan  he's  evolved. 

"'"Son,"  says  this  yere  Peg-laig,  "how  much 
money  has  you  ?  " 

"  *  I  tells  him  I  ain't  over  strong ;  somethin'  like 
two  hundred  dollars,  mebby. 

"  *  "  That's  enough,"  says  Peg-laig.  "  Son,  give  it 
to  me.  I'll  put  three  hundred  with  it,  an'  that'll 
make  a  roll  of  five  hundred  dollars.  With  a  care 
ful  man  like  me  to  deal,  she  shorely  oughter  be 
enough." 

"'"Whatever  does  these  yere  fiscal  bluffs  of 
yours  portend?"  I  asks. 

" '  "  They  portends  as  follows,"  says  Peg-laig. 
"  This  yere  Rock  Island  outfit  is  plumb  locoed  to 
play  faro-bank.  I've  got  a  deck  of  kyards  an'  a 
deal  box  in  my  pocket.  Son,  we'll  lay  over  a  day 
an*  break  the  village." 

" '  Thar's  no  use  tryin*  to  head  off  old  Peg-laig. 
He's  the  most  invet'rate  sport  that  a- way,  an'  faro- 
bank  is  his  leadin*  weakness.  They  even  tells  onct 
how  this  Peg-laig  is  in  a  small  camp  in  Iowa  an'  is 
buckin'  a  crooked  game.  A  pard  sees  him  an' 
takes  Peg-laig  to  task. 

" ' "  Can't    you-all   see    them    sharps   is   skinnin 


When  the  Stage  Was  Stopped*  303 

you  ?  "  says  this  friend,  an'  his  tones  is  loaded  with 
disgust.  "Ain't  you  wise  enough  to  know  this 
game  ain't  on  the  squar',  an'  them  outlaws  has  a 
end-squeeze  box  an'  is  dealin'  two  kyards  at  a  clat 
ter  an'  puttin'  back  right  onder  your  ignorant  nose  ? 
Which  you  conducts  yourse'f  like  you  was  born  last 
week !  " 

"'"Of  course,  I  knows  the  game  is  crooked," 
says  Peg-laig,  plenty  doleful,  "  an'  I  regrets  it  as 
much  as  you.  But  whatever  can  I  do?" 

"  *  "  Do  !  "  says  his  friend  ;  "  do  !  You-all  can 
quit  goin'  ag'inst  it,  can't  you  ?  " 

" '  "  But  you  don't  onderstand,"  says  Peg-laig, 
eager  an'  warm.  "  It's  all  plumb  easy  for  you  to 
stand  thar  an'  say  I  don't  have  to  go  ag'inst  it.  It 
may  change  your  notion  a  whole  lot  when  I  informs 
you  that  this  yere  is  the  only  game  in  town,"  an* 
with  that  this  reedic'lous  Peg-laig  hurries  back  to 
his  seat. 

"  '  As  I  asserts  former,  it's  no  use  me  tryin'  to 
make  old  Peg-laig  stop  when  once  he's  started  with 
them  schemes  of  his,  so  I  turns  over  my  two  hun 
dred  dollars,  an'  leans  back  to  see  whatever  Peg. 
laig's  goin'  to  a'complish  next.  As  he  says,  he's 
got  a  box  an'  a  deck  to  deal  with.  So  he  fakes  a 
layout  with  a  suite  of  jimcrow  kyards  he  buys, 
local,  an'  a  oil-cloth  table-cover,  an'  thar  he  is  organ 
ized  to  begin.  For  chips,  he  goes  over  to  a  store 
an'  buys  twenty  stacks  of  big  wooden  button  molds, 
same  as  they  sews  the  cloth  onto  for  overcoat  but 
tons.  When  Peg-laig  is  ready,  you  should  have 


304  Wolfville  Days* 

beheld  the  enthoosiasm  of  them  Rock  Island  folks. 
They  goes  ag'inst  that  brace  of  Peg-laig's  like  a 
avalanche. 

"'Peg-laig  deals  for  mighty  likely  it's  an  hour. 
Jest  as  he  puts  it  up,  he's  a  careful  dealer,  an'  the 
result  is  we  win  all  the  big  bets  an'  most  all  the 
little  ones,  an'  I'm  sort  o'  estimatin'  in  my  mind 
that  we're  ahead  about  four  hundred  simoleons. 
Of  a-sudden,  Peg-laig  stops  dealin',  up-ends  his  box 
and  turns  to  me  with  a  look  which  shows  he's  plumb 
dismayed.  P'intin'  at  the  check-rack,  Peg-laig  says  : 

"'"Son,  look  thar!" 

" '  Nacherally,  I  looks,  an'  I  at  once  realizes  the 
roots  of  that  consternation  of  Peg-laig's.  It's  this  : 
While  thar's  more  of  them  button  molds  in  front  of 
Peg-laig's  right  elbow  than  we  embarks  with  orig'- 
nal,  thar's  still  twenty-two  hundred  dollars'  worth  in 
the  hands  of  the  Rock  Island  pop'lace  waitin'  to  be 
cashed.  However  do  they  do  it  ?  They  goes 
stampedin'  over  to  this  yere  storekeep  an'  pur 
chases  'em  for  four  bits  a  gross.  They  buys  that 
vagrant  out  that  a-way.  They  even  buys  new 
kinds  on  us,  an'  it's  a  party  tryin'  to  bet  a  stack  of 
pants  buttons  on  the  high  kyard  that  calls  Peg- 
laig's  attention  to  them  frauds. 

"'  Thar's  no  he'p  for  it,  however;  them  villagers 
is  stony  an'  adamantine,  an'  so  far  as  we  has  money 
they  shorely  makes  us  pay.  We  walks  out  of  Rock 
Island.  About  a  mile  free  of  the  camp,  Peg-laig 
stops  an'  surveys  me  a  heap  mournful. 

"  '  "  Son,"  he  says,  "  we  was  winnin',  wasn't  we  ?  ' 

"  '  "  Which  we  shore  was,"  I  replies. 


When  the  Stage  Was  Stopped.  305 

"  * "  Exactly,"  says  Peg-laig,  shakin'  his  head, 
"  we  was  shorely  winners.  An'  I  want  to  add, 
son,  that  if  we-all  could  have  kept  on  winnin'  for 
two  hours  more,  we'd  a-lost  eight  thousand  dollars." 

"  *  It's  like  this  yere  stage  hold-up  on  Enright,' 
concloodes  Cherokee  ;  '  it's  a  harassin'  instance  of 
where  the  more  you  wins,  the  more  you  lose.' 

"  About  this  time,  Enright  an'  Jack  Moore  comes 
in.  Colonel  Sterett  an'  Dan  Boggs  j'ines  us  acciden 
tal,  an'  we-all  six  holds  a  pow  wow  in  low  tones. 

" '  Which  Jack/  observes  Enright,  like  he's  ex- 
perimentin'  an'  ropin'  for  our  views,  *  allows  it's  his 
beliefs  that  this  yere  guileless  tenderfoot,  Davis, 
who  says  he's  from  Buffalo,  an'  who's  been  prancin' 
about  town  for  the  last  two  days,  is  involved  in 
them  felonies/ 

"  *  It  ain't  none  onlikely/  says  Boggs  ;  '  speshully 
since  he's  from  Buffalo.  I  never  does  know  but  one 
squar'  gent  who  comes  from  Buffalo  ;  he's  old 
Jenks.  An'  at  that,  old  Jenks  gets  downed,  final, 
by  the  sheriff  over  on  Sand  Creek  for  stealin'  a 
hoss.' 

"  '  You-all  wants  to  onderstand/  says  Jack  Moore, 
cuttin'  in  after  Boggs,  '  I  don't  pretend  none  to  no 
proofs.  I  jest  reckons  it's  so.  It's  a  common 
scandal  how  dead  innocent  this  yere  shorthorn 
Davis  assoomes  to  be  ;  how  he  wants  Cherokee  to 
explain  faro-bank  to  him  ;  an'  how  he  can't  onder 
stand  none  why  Black  Jack  an'  the  dance-hall 
won't  mix  no  drinks.  Which  I  might,  in  the  hurry 
of  my  dooties,  have  passed  by  them  childish  bluffs 


306  Wolfville  Days. 

onchallenged  an*  with  nothin'  more  than  pityin* 
thoughts  of  the  ignorance  of  this  yere  maverick ; 
but  gents,  this  party  overplays  his  hand.  Last 
evenin'  he  asks  me  to  let  him  take  my  gun;  says 
he's  cur'ous  to  see  one.  That  settles  it  with  me; 
this  Davis  has  been  a  object  of  suspicion  ever  since. 
No,  it  ain't  that  I  allows  he's  out  to  queer  my 
weepon  none,  hut  think  of  sech  a  pretence  of  inno 
cence!  I  leaves  it  to  you-all,  collectif  an'  indivi- 
dooal,  do  you  reckon  now  thar's  anybody,  however 
tender,  who's  that  guileless  as  to  go  askin'  a  perfect 
stranger  that  a-way  to  pass  him  out  his  gun  ?  I 
no  ;  this  gent  is  overdoin'  them  roles.  He 
ain't  so  tender  as  he  assoomes.  An*  from  the 
moment  I  hears  of  this  last  stand-up  of  the  stage 
back  in  the  canyon,  I  feels  that  this  yere  party  is 
somehow  in  the  play.  Thar's  four  in  this  band 
who's  been  spreadin'  woe  among  the  stage  com 
panies  lately,  an'  thar's  only  two  of  'em  shows  in 
this  latest  racket  which  they  gives  Old  Monte,  an* 
that  express  gyard  they  shot  up.  Them  other  two 
sports  who  ain't  present  is  shore  some'ers ;  an'  I 
gives  it  as  my  opinions  one  of  'em's  right  yere  in 
our  onthinkin'  center,  actin'  silly,  askin'  egreegious 
questions,  an'  allowin'  his  name  is  Davis  an'  that  he 
hails  from  Buffalo.' 

44  While  Jack  is  evolvin*  this  long  talk,  we-all  is 
thinkin'  ;  an',  son,  somehow  it  strikes  us  that  thar's 
mighty  likely  somethin'  in  this  notion  of  Jack's. 
We-all  agrees,  however,  thar  bein*  nothin'  def'nite 
to  go  on,  we  can't  do  nothin'  but  wait.  Still,  pro 


When   the  Sta^e  Was  Stopped.  3°7 

;m'  con   lik<:,  we  pushes  forth   in   discussion  of  this 
person. 

44 '  It  does  look   like   this    Davis/   says  Colonel 
Sterett, '  now  Jack  brings  it  up,  is  shorely  playi.-. 
part ;  which  he's  over  easy  an*  ontaught,  even    f 
the    East.     This   mornin',   jest   to    give   you-all    ;i 
sample,  he  comes  sidlin'  up  to  me.     "Is  thar  any 
good   fishin'   about  yere  ? "    he  asks.    "  Which   I 
shore  yearns  to  fish  some." 

"'"  Does  this  yere  landscape,"  I  says,  wavin'  my 
arm  about  the  hor'zon,  "  remind  you  much  of  fr.h  ' 
Stranger/'  I  says,  "fish  an'  Christians  is  partic'lar 
spars':  in  An/on  a." 

'"Then  this  person  Davis  la'nches  out  into  tales 
d'.-escriptif  of  how  he  goes  anglin*  back  in  the 
States.  "Which  the  eel  is  the  gamest  fish,"  says 
Davi  ,.  "  Wh'rn  I'm  visitin*  in  Vir^iimy,  I  used 
to  go  fishin'.  I  don't  fish  with  a  reel,  an'  one  of 
them  limber  poles,  an'  let  a  fish  go  swarmin*  up  an' 
down  a  stream,  a-bn:<-'lm'  false  hopes  in  his  bosom  an* 
lettin'  him  think  he's  loose.  Not  me ;  I  wouldn't  so 
deloode — wouldn't  play  it  that  low  on  a  fish.  I  goes 
anglin'  in  a  formal,  sc'f-rcspectin*  way.  I  uses  a 
short,  line  an'  a  pol<:  which  is  stiff  an' strong.  When 
I  gets  a  bite,  I  yanks  him  out  an*  lets  him  know 
his  fate  right  thar." 

"  '  "  But  eels  ain't  no  game  fish,"  I  says.  "  Bass 
is  game,  but  not  eels." 

" '  "  Eels  ain't  game  none,  ain't  they  ?  "  says  t  hi 
e  Davis,  lettin' oil  he's  a  heap  inti          I    "You- 
all  listen  to  me  ;  l-:t   me  tell  you  of  a  eel  I  snags 


308  Wolfville  Days. 

onto  down  by  Culpepper.  When  he  bites  that 
time  I  gives  him  both  hands.  That  eel  comes 
through  the  air  jest  whistlin'  an'  w'irlin'.  I  slams  him 
ag'inst  the  great  state  of  Virginny.  Suppose  one  of 
them  bass  you  boasts  of  takes  sech  a  jolt.  Whatever 
would  he  have  done?  He'd  lay  thar  pantin*  an' 
rollin'  his  eyes ;  mebby  he  curls  his  tail  a  little. 
That  would  be  the  utmost  of  them  resentments  of 
his.  What  does  my  eel  do  ?  Stranger,  he  stands 
up  on  his  tail  an'  fights  me.  Game !  that  eel's 
game  as  scorpions !  My  dog  Fido's  with  me. 
Fido  wades  into  the  eel,  an'  the  commotion  is  awful. 
That  eel  whips  Fido  in  two  minutes,  Washin'ton 
time.  How  much  does  he  weigh  ?  Whatever  do  I 
know  about  it  ?  When  he's  done  put  the  gaffs  into 
Fido,  he  nacherally  sa'nters  back  into  the  branch 
where  he  lives  at.  I  don't  get  him  none  ;  I  deems 
I'm  plumb  lucky  when  he  don't  get  me.  Still, 
if  any  gent  talks  of  game  fish  that  a-way,  I 
wants  it  onderstood,  I  strings  my  money  on  that 
Culpepper  eel." 

"  '  Thar,  it's  jest  as  I  tells  you-all,  gents  !  '  says 
Jack  Moore  a  heap  disgusted,  when  Colonel  Sterett 
gets  through.  'This  yere  Davis  is  a  imposter. 
Which  thar's  no  mortal  sport  could  know  as  little 
as  he  lets  on  an'  live  to  reach  his  age.' 

"  We  sets  thar  an'  lays  plans.  At  last  in  pursoo- 
ance  of  them  devices,  it  gets  roomored  about  camp 
that  the  next  day  but  one,  both  Enright  an'  the 
New  York  Store  aims  to  send  over  to  Tucson  a  roll 
of  money  the  size  of  a  wagon  hub. 


When  the  Stage  Was  Stopped.  309 

"  *  Thar's  no  danger  of  them  hold-ups,'  says 
Enright  to  this  Davis,  lettin'  on  he's  a  heap  confi- 
denshul.  '  They  won't  be  lookin'  for  no  sech 
riches  bein'  freighted  over  slap  on  the  heels  of  this 
yere  robbery.  An'  we  don't  aim  to  put  up  no 
gyards  alongside  of  Old  Monte  neither.  Gyards 
is  no  good  ;  they  gets  beefed  the  first  volley,  an' 
their  presence  on  a  coach  that  a-way  is  notice  that 
thar's  plenty  of  treasure  aboard.' 

"  It's  in  this  way  Enright  fills  that  Davis  as  full 
of  misinformation  as  a  bottle  of  rum.  Also,  we 
deems  it  some  signif'cant  when  said  shorthorn 
saddles  his  hoss  over  to  the  corral  an'  goes  skally- 
hootin'  for  Tucson  about  first  drink  time  in  the 
mornin'. 

"  '  I've  a  engagement  in  the  Oriental  S'loon,'  he 
says,  biddin'  us  good-bye  plenty  cheerful,  *  but  I'll 
be  back  among  you-all  sports  in  a  week.  I  likes 
your  ways  a  whole  lot,  an*  I  wants  to  learn  'em 
some.' 

"'  Which  I  offers  four  to  one/  says  Jack  Moore, 
lookin'  after  him  as  he  rides  away,  '  you'll  be  back 
yere  sooner  than  that,  an'  you-all  won't  know  it 
none,  at  that.' 

"  It's  the  next  day  when  the  stage  starts  ;  Old 
Monte  is  crackin'  his  whip  in  a  hardened  way,  carin' 
nothin'  for  road  agents  as  long  as  they  don't  inter 
fere  with  the  licker  traffic.  Thar's  only  one  passen 
ger. 

"  Shore  enough,  jest  as  it's  closin'  in  some  dark  in 
Apache  Canyon,  an'  the  stage  is  groanin'  an'  creakin' 


Wolfvilie  Days* 

along  on  a  up  grade,  thar's  a  trio  of  hold-ups  shows 
on  the  trail,  an'  the  procession  comes  to  a  halt. 
Old  Monte  sets  the  brake,  wrops  the  reins  about  it> 
locks  his  hands  over  his  head,  an'  turns  in  to  cuss. 
The  hold-ups  takes  no  notice.  They  yanks  down  the 
Wells-Fargo  chest,  pulls  off  the  letter  bag,  accepts 
a  watch  an'  a  pocket-book  from  the  gent  inside, 
who's  scared  an'  shiverin'  an'  scroogin'  back  in  the 
darkest  corner,  he's  that  terror-bit ;  an'  then  they 
applies  a  few  epithets  to  Old  Monte  an'  commands 
him  to  pull  his  freight.  An'  Old  Monte  shorely 
obeys  them  mandates,  an'  goes  crashin'  off  up  the 
canyon  on  the  run. 

"  Them  outlaws  hauls  the  plunder  to  one  side  of 
the  trail  an'  lays  for  the  mail-bag  with  a  bowie. 
All  three  is  as  busy  as  prairy  dogs  after  a  rain, 
rippin'  open  letters  an'  lookin'  for  checks  an'  drafts. 
Later  they  aims  at  some  op'rations  on  the  express 
company's  box. 

"  But  they  never  gets  to  the  box.  Thar's  the 
lively  tones  of  a  Winchester  which  starts  the  can 
yon's  echoes  to  talkin'.  That  rifle  ain't  forty  foot 
away,  an'  it  speaks  three  times  before  ever  you-all, 
son,  could  snap  your  fingers.  An'  that  weepon 
don't  make  them  observations  in  vain.  It  ain't 
firm'  no  salootes.  Quick  as  is  the  work,  the  sights 
shifts  to  a  new  target  every  time.  At  the  last,  all 
three  hold-ups  lays  kickin'  an'  jumpin'  like  chickens 
that  a-way  ;  two  is  dead  an'  the  other  is  too  hard 
hit  to  respond. 

"  Whoever  does  it  ?     Jack  Moore  ;  he's  that  one 


When  the  Stage  Was  Stopped*  311 

shiverin*  passenger  that  time.  He  slides  outen  the 
stage  as  soon  as  ever  it  turns  the  angle  of  the  can 
yon,  an'  comes  scoutin'  an'  crawlin'  back  on  his 
prey.  An'  I  might  add,  it  shore  soothes  Jack's 
vanity  a  lot,  when  the  first  remainder  shows  down 
as  that  artless  maverick,  Davis.  Jack  lights  a  pine 
splinter  an'  looks  him  over — pale  an'  dead  an*  done. 
"  «  Which  you-all  is  the  victim  of  over-play,'  says 
Jack  to  this  yere  Davis,  same  as  if  he  hears  him. 
*  If  you  never  asks  to  see  my  gun  that  time,  it's 
even  money  my  suspicions  concernin*  you  might  be 
sleepin'  yet.'' ff 


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